


We Are Not Soldiers

by Leraika



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Azkaban, Blood and Torture, Child Soldiers, Childhood Trauma, Dark Loki, Dark Mark, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Especially Glowing Muggle Things, Everyone Has Issues, Explosions, F/M, Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter References, Hidden Depths, Infinity Gems, Magical Artifacts, Magical Tattoos, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Other Side Of The Veil, Parallel Universes, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Secrets, Set in MCU, Swearing, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trauma, Trust Issues, Veil of Death (Harry Potter), spells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leraika/pseuds/Leraika
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy was given a choice.But what no one knew was that the Veil is more complicated than Severus Snape, more enigmatic than Albus Dumbledore, and as unpredictable as those Weasley Twins.Now Draco is trapped amidst horrifyingly advanced muggles, without a wand or a prayer. All he has are his wits, a surfeit of trust issues, scars and tattoos he'd rather not explain, and a raging case of xenophobia.Then the aliens attack...





	1. The Fall, The Crash

**Author's Note:**

> First half of Chapter 1 is set in the Harry Potter Universe. (And I interpreted events to my own nefarious ends, too.) 
> 
> The rest is set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, with a few flashbacks. 
> 
> No beta, any mistakes are mine and I'm so very sorry for them.

 

> _Ram Saran Das was sentenced to death in 1915, and the sentence was later commuted to life transportation. Today myself, sitting in the condemned cell, I can let the readers know as authoritatively that the life-imprisonment is comparatively a far harder lot than that of death._  
>  Bhagat Singh

* * *

 

As predicted, he went to Azkaban. The bitter numbness had solidified after the door of his cell had closed, leaving him in darkness.

It did not matter that he had been a minor—they had all been _children_ —their actions were severe and so their punishment had to reflect their crimes. His most of all. During the infrequent occasions when the prisoners were allowed to mingle in the communal area, he bartered with the other prisoners. And he waited.

He was there for almost two years before they saw fit to remember his existence.

Or the Ministry figured it was the only way to put a stop to his mother’s incessant harassment of their offices.

The first trial was a sham. The Wizengamot were as unbiased as a Ravenclaw on the subject of book burnings.

He had gone back to the sodden rock in the middle of the North Sea without protest.

Sometime during that second incarceration, his mother died, apparently of a sleeping potions overdose. It was impossible to know whether it had been an accident, successful suicide or simply murder. 

He barely felt a thing when he had been told. 

Another year passed.

Then he was dragged to Wizengamot once more.

The second trial had been far more interesting.

* * *

 

It was somehow worse that they had given him a choice.

He stood in the Department of Mysteries, in front of the half-ruined stone arch carved with ancient symbols. He held his head high as the Unspeakables flitted around him, attaching sensor charms to his clothes and body. A healer from St. Mungo’s hovered nearby talking earnestly to The Saviour and his equally irritating cronies. Status and money, as he knew well, could get you front-row seats to almost anything.

The Veil fluttered in a non-existent breeze, as innocuous and deadly as a horcrux. Oh, yes, he had known all about those. He knew an awful lot about far too many things. Perhaps that was why he had such prestigious witnesses at his send-off. They probably wanted to make sure he did not wriggle out of it.

But there really was nowhere left to run. No money to effect his escape, no family who would speak on his behalf or plea for mercy. He would be the last of his name and certainly the last pureblood of several ancient lines. Perhaps that was no bad thing. He had not been the committed pure-blood fanatic in the way his father and mother had been, not for several years. But part of him was still proud of his lineage.

In these, his final moments, he clung to the flimsy shell of his aristocratic persona—maintaining a façade of silent, calm dignity to hide his bitter resignation. They could laugh and jeer all they liked, but they would never be like him and he would show them how real wizards met their end. With dignity, grace and fearlessness. Courage was not solely a Gryffindor trait. Especially when he was avoiding the alternative—a one-way ticket to a brief encounter with a Dementor. At least being these researchers’ test subject meant he would die with his soul intact and undigested. There was no dignity or moral victory in the Kiss.

A macabre bonus was that when he died in the same way as his blood-traitor of a cousin. It might even squeeze a little guilt through the chinks in The Saviour’s Armour of Moral Righteousness. And if the memory of him haunted The Boy Who Had Repeatedly Failed To Die, then that was something. Just a little something.

Perhaps he would be granted one last request. If he was lucky, it would be a large glass of Ogden’s finest and a cigarette. Yet the so-called experts were not interested in talking to their sacrificial lamb and he would not lower himself to starting a conversation, however inconsequential, with his executioners.

After all, if things had turned out differently, their roles may well have been reversed. This lent a predatory cast to his features as he watched the bustling activity. There was no grim solemnity about these people. No reverence or ceremony around the actions they were committing. No respect for the life they were going to take in the name of ‘research’.

He clenched his hands briefly, letting his nails bite into his palms, he relished the pain and then relaxed. No need to give the game away. He would only be strolling into the realm of the dead. It would be like popping over to Knockturn Alley for a bezoar. No big deal. If everyone else was being so cavalier about this matter, he’d be damned if he didn’t show them how it was really done.

He would have liked to go flying, though, one last time. Or perhaps just sleep in his own bed. He was so very tired. 

But war criminals did not get anything.

It was a shame that they would never know the whole truth, but even that filled him with a savage satisfaction. He would rather die a monster in this cold, uninspiring room than have anything else.

It was too late.

There was nothing left for him here and he was ready to go.

Suddenly a horribly familiar person was standing in front of him—those green eyes searching his face for something that wasn't there. 

“So,” The Saviour said. “I know that this sounds stupid… but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Oh no. Not this. Not now. He did not want this man’s guilt—knowing it would happen was one thing, being given a sight of it was quite another.

Once again, Harry Sodding Potter was making it all about himself.

Couldn’t he even be the star at his own execution?

He might have considered answering, if he hadn’t been rather preoccupied by the voices emanating from beyond that translucent Veil. If they whispered to the great and the good, they roared and howled at someone with as much death and torment on their soul as his possessed. It was distracting. He blinked slowly at Potter and then returned his gaze to the Veil. He wanted a good run-up on the thing. He calculated how many steps it would take him to get there.

Twenty-two ought to do it.

Funny, that was how old he wouldn’t be next month.

“Say something, damn you!” Potter growled, not touching him for fear of interrupting the complex web of spells that lay over him like a second skin, even though he looked ready to shove him in the chest.

He flicked the briefest of glances to Potter and arched an eyebrow in a way that would have impressed his father.

“Goodbye, Potter.” His voice was quiet and Arctic. The cacophony from the Veil was getting worse, the sounds of this world were starting to fade. Even colour was leeching away. Potter was a distraction. Irrelevant.

Potter gaped at him for a long moment—as inelegant as ever—before walking back to his posse, shaking his head.

He tracked the action out of the corner of his eye and then promptly forgot all about the Saviour and his sentimental rubbish. Then an Unspeakable and two Aurors stepped in front of him. One Auror removed his bonds, the chains and shackles falling away. The other handed him a galleon. The Unspeakable tucked a small velvet pouch into his prison robes. Then he gestured towards the Veil as everyone else cleared the way.

Show time.

_One._

That wasn’t so hard. Take another.

_Two._

See? It’s perfectly natural, like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

_Three._

It’s very easy.

He pushed on, making sure his steps were measured. Each breath was a conscious joy, the cold air like a tender caress on a fevered brow.

_Seven._

He welcomed that cold into him. Made it a part of himself. Just like the unearthly din from beyond the Veil.

_Ten._

Almost halfway there. That arch is still enormous. Had it once been part of a larger structure?

_Twelve._

The voices were all he could hear now.

_Fifteen._

Up the steps. Don’t trip, for Merlin’s sake, don’t trip.

_Seventeen._

He couldn’t tear his eyes off the stone arch. It was pulling him in.

_Nineteen._

Was he supposed to be frightened? He couldn’t remember.

_Twenty._

He paused, letting the Veil brush against his skin. It was insubstantial, but definitely there. Like mist or smoke.

He took one last greedy breath and stepped through the Veil.

There was a feeling of purest cold and weightlessness.

The voices rocked through him like a storm.

Something grabbed him, vice-tight and sharp as razor blades. 

Then nothing.

Then…

Nothing.

* * *

 

When consciousness returned, he realised something was wrong. His battered senses were telling him that he was vaguely uncomfortable. It was a feeling that could not have followed him into the realm of the dead. Tartarus would surely be far worse, and Elysium would not garner any complaints.

Perhaps he had fallen through the Veil, but not into the realm of the dead?

Or maybe he had just been given the preview of what was to come? He could be lying face down on the stone floor on the other side of the arch?

This sort of speculation was only making him feel worse. Perversely he hoped that he was still in the Department of Mysteries so he argue that they _had_ executed him. But the verdict at his sham of a second trial did not state how many times they were allowed to kill him.

That forlorn hope was blown out of the water when he opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He was lying on a patch of bare earth under an impressive pine tree. The sounds of the night-bound forest made themselves known, reinforcing the point.

Bizarre.

He understood that wizards in far eastern countries believed in reincarnation. And although he only vaguely understood the concept, he knew this wasn’t the case after a quick glance at himself. This was still his body, these were still his robes, threadbare and faded. He carefully got to his feet, leaning against the pine's trunk for support. He wished he had some Pepper-Up potion. Or better yet, his wand.

But that had been destroyed long ago.

Not that it really mattered—wandless magic required more focus, but he was confident in his abilities. Moreover the war had taught him many skills that would have prompted a pureblood of his grandfather’s vintage to disowning him with all speed, deepest scorn and possibly some savage violence thrown in to teach such an unstable scion a lesson he’d never forget.

He wasn’t picky, though; and having possibly died once, he was not keen to repeat the experience.

The other thing that worried him was whether the Saviour and his merry bunch of do-gooders knew what had happened. Worse, would they be able to track him down and retrieve him?

And was it possible to be sentenced to Azkaban for failing one’s execution?

He closed his eyes and concentrated hard on sensing his own magical signature, tasting the energies on his tongue, focusing on the power that pulsed in his veins.

No foreign signatures, no spells from another’s wand—although he would need a wand of his own to confirm it—so it was possible that the Veil had stripped away all foreign magic from him.

Maybe.

He hated such uncertainties, having endured them far too often in his life. He glanced down at his hands, noticed the faint trembling and wondered whether it was hunger, shock or cold that was responsible. Possibly all three.

He lit a fire under some gathered wood and paced around it, wondering where he was. Was he alone in this forest? There was no taste of magic in the air, and so he only had to worry about normal beasts—which was a comfort considering he was in no shape to drive off a niffler, much less a manticore.

* * *

Tony Stark was far from impressed. Captain America, his father’s resurrected friend and a national treasure, seemed just as enchanted to meet him. Even Romanova had reverted to her joyless official demeanour, so Tony took it upon himself to be the life and soul of the party.

They had just apprehended Loki—who was being suspiciously quiet and calm about this dent in his schemes—and the cracks were already showing. They hadn’t argued outright, but Tony and Rogers had established that they held irreconcilable differences of opinion.

And that was the diplomatic version of his feelings about the ex-Capsicle.

Honestly, who could take a man seriously when he was stupid enough to go toe-to-toe with a god-like creature with nothing but his bare hands and a shield? While wrapped in a flag. Although he suspected that Agent My-Name-Is-Agent Coulson had something to do with the costume, judging by the discreet glances at Mr Hero’s oversized vibranium dinner plate.

Suddenly lightning diverted their attention to Loki, who looked nervous. Was this another planned scene in Act One of ‘ _Loki: A Comedy in Three Parts_ ’?

Captain Righteousness casually asked if Reindeer Games was afraid of a little lightning and while Loki intimated that he didn’t like thunder, the entire aircraft rocked and dipped alarmingly as the storm raged around them. Tony had put on his helm and opened the gangway, intending to have a look at what had hit the quinjet, when a blond man in a red cloak swooped in through the open hatch. He was even taller and wider than Rogers, which was saying something. The caped mountain swatted Tony aside (which shouldn't have been so fucking easy), and then torn Loki into the raging night sky.

Well that was certainly a _deus ex machina_ move if ever he saw one. Literally.

Still, not to be phased by tropes or by the urge to go along with them, he slammed his helm back on and went after them.

After insinuating that Rogers was a wimp, of course.

The Asgardian mountain of muscles, armour and cloak proved far tougher than he had anticipated. Goddamn tourist thinking he can just swagger around like some sort of god on earth and _steal what doesn’t belong to him_. Now who else did that remind Tony of? Oh yeah, just about everyone around him.

It wasn’t until after Rogers appeared out of nowhere and put shield to hammer—and thereby flattening half the forest—that they noticed their audience.

Really, it was too ludicrous to make up. They were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, trashing a national park of some kind—he wasn’t really listening to JARVIS’ warnings about ‘Heritage Sites’ and ‘diplomatic struggles’—and a freaking kid walked out from behind a rocky outcrop in a ratty old bathrobe.

Tony was almost ready to fly back to the Tower and leave the lunatics to run the asylum. He could feel a headache coming on and just wanted a really good drink. But he couldn’t do that—because what would Pepper say?—and instead turned to eyeball the kid who wore an expression that suggested he’d been hit on the head with the thunder guy's hammer. Rogers was negotiating with Thor, because he had refused to talk to Tony. So it seemed that he had to deal with their strange civilian witness.

He walked over, flipping up his faceplate and offering the guy a slight smile. “Hey there,” he said. “Did you sleepwalk from your campsite?”

The so-pale-he-could-be-albino young man with shoulder-length white hair stared at him in blank-faced appraisal, his silvery eyes darting to the others as his hands flexed at his side. His right hand in particular was convulsing, as if desperate for something to hold. Tony started to absorb the details—the barely visible five o’clock shadow on his jaw, the bones of his pointy face sitting too close to the surface, the sharp points of his collarbone just visible under the threadbare robe, the dark tattoos peppering the skin of his hands and neck (the only parts of skin visible apart from his unmarked face), the long thin fingers and ramrod straight spine…

Yeah. Something was way off.

Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Which, considering he was Tony Stark, was a really big deal.

The young man opened his mouth and asked—in an upper-class English accent, no less—“Who are you?”

Good God, there were uncontacted tribes in the heart of the Amazon rainforest who could pick him out of a line-up. And this kid—this little punk—had no idea who he was? Inconceivable!

“Excuse me?” Tony asked, completely astonished.

The kid frowned slightly, his eyes roving along the suit, flicking to the others and then back to Tony’s face. He shook his head and his jaw clenched. “Don’t waste my time, where am I?”

Tony frowned at the strange—almost insulting—tone of voice. This kid was crazy. Had to be. Didn’t know _who_ Tony-friggin’-Stark was and didn’t know _where_ he was.

“Okay, I think it’s safe to say you need to see a doctor,” he said, cautiously reaching out a gauntleted hand. The kid darted back with surprisingly good reflexes and coordination for a crazy person.

“Don’t touch me!” the kid spat. “This…” the resolve in his eyes wavered for a single instant before he snapped back to himself. He focused on Tony again, and this time made eye contact for a long, long moment. Then he relaxed, his entire demeanour changed. His face radiated something close to confidence. “Right,” he said. “Where am I, precisely?”

What?

“Uh, JARVIS?” he asked.

“ _Sir, we are in the south-west area of the Ardennes,”_ his A.I. supplied.

The strange lunatic nodded and sighed when Tony repeated this. His expression turned thoughtful as his eyes roamed over the assembled men. Tony realised that they must look so strange that it would not have encouraged a sane person to take them seriously, let alone someone who was clearly mentally defective.

This was going to get complicated. Tony just _knew_ it.

* * *

 

Judging by the varying and outlandish outfits of these men, he had to be in another world—his own could not possibly contain such a low breed of madmen. Even his frothing aunt had been a better class of dangerous lunatic and that was saying something.

However he did not have a choice. He had broken into a cold sweat just starting that measly fire—which these unhelpful muggles had put out with their strange tools—and he could not apparate. Moreover, a superficial Legilimency and brief verbal inquiry had proved less than useless, apart from ascertaining that he was in the Ardennes. This only made the situation worse. He was not too proud to ask for help, especially when they clearly did not know who he was.

Asking muggles for help… Abraxas would have disowned him after a few Dark curses. Lucius would have killed him with multiple extremely nasty Dark curses.

Draco Malfoy was hardly worried about that. He was a survivor above all else and dignity had little to do with that. 

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered, half turning away as if speaking to himself but being quite sure that the man in the strange Gryffindor-themed suit of armour would hear it.

“Where’s ‘here’ for you, then?” the man in the armour asked.

 _Good question,_ Draco thought. So he shrugged and hugged himself around the waist, still not looking at the man. He knew his near-emaciated frame and ragged robes would help give the impression that he was vulnerable and afraid. Which also happened to be the truth.

The man sighed and Draco looked over his shoulder sharply at the sound of the armour moving.

“Okay, okay… look, our ride’s about to show up, so come over here and meet the others,” the man said, turning towards the other lunatics. “Name’s Tony Stark, by the way, what’s yours?” The way he said it suggested to Draco that he was expecting some kind of reaction.

He was doomed to disappointment.

“Malfoy,” he said shortly, there being no sense in lying, as he fell into step beside the man. It was unlikely that any of them had heard of the ancient and terrible name of Malfoy, anyway.

The armoured man snorted inelegantly.

Fine, Draco could deal with the ignorant derision of muggles. He fixed his gaze on the two golden-haired men, who had turned to stare at him. He stared right back, curiosity hidden behind layer upon layer of Occlumency.

“Who are you?” The one with the shield asked.

Draco blinked slowly and felt his chin lift. Another American. Why were they in Belgium?

“I am Draco Malfoy,” he said, that was all the explanation they deserved.

The blond American man with the shield stuck out a gloved hand. “Steve Rogers,” he said.

Draco stared at his hand for a long moment before letting his gaze travel lazily to peruse the others incredulously. The instant before Rogers withdrew his hand, Draco grasped it briefly, noticing the heat and strength before pulling away.

“You’re freezing,” Rogers remarked.

Draco didn’t roll his eyes—that would be far too plebeian—and so just kept up his blank stare. Such remarks were pointless unless they were followed by some constructive suggestion.

“We’ll get you a blanket in a moment,” Rogers went on, looking a little unsettled, as if in answer to Draco's thoughts.

Draco ignored this statement, since they could hardly transfigure one for him, and turned to regard the man in the red cape with the hammer.

“Greetings, I am Thor Odinson, of Asgard,” the man said with a regal inclination of his head.

Draco arched an eyebrow at him. He certainly looked the part, but whether he actually was anything to get excited about was another matter entirely. In Draco’s severely weakened state, a second attempt at Legilimency would only result in one of his apocalyptic migraines. But that hammer was definitely a very powerful magical artefact. He could feel it humming against his bones and teeth. Even if this slab of muscle wasn’t one of the aesir, the weapon he bore was certainly no toy or harmless replica.

“Malfoy,” he said, inclining his head a bare inch.

There was an awkward silence, before Draco’s eyes caught a glint of movement up on the ridge above them. He turned his head to look at it more openly, drawing the others’ attention to it. Stark cursed and the suit of armour took off with a burst of noise and flame, shooting like an oversized firework to the ridgeline. Thor twirled his hammer and _flew_ _up_ with no apparent effort, leaving Rogers standing next to Draco.

“Well a stroll in the woods never hurt anyone,” Rogers said, gesturing for Draco to go first.

Tell that to someone who had been in the Forbidden Forest. Nor was Draco going to be ‘escorted’ _anywhere_ , as if he were still a prisoner. Draco did not move an inch except to arch his eyebrow at Rogers.

The tall American huffed out an amused breath and a boyish smile flickered over his mouth. “Okay then,” he said with a shrug, and took the lead.

Draco followed after a moment, grateful that no one was looking at him while he collected himself. His father had closely followed the technological advances of muggles. It was a singular mistake to imagine that Lucius Malfoy’s contempt for the non-magical world meant that he and his son did not understand it. But the technology Draco had just witnessed suggested that he was in another world altogether. His father would have been swift to warn him of such developments long before they had any direct impact on the magical community. Draco would have to observe everything and never let his guard down. They may never have heard of him or his world, but that was no guarantee that they did not see him as a threat.

Climbing up to the ridgeline left him gasping, his vision swimming and his sense of balance see-sawing. It was embarrassing and he had no option but to lean against a rock to catch his breath.

“Hey, are you okay?”

A large, warm hand landed gently on his back and he flinched away from Rogers. He gulped back the incipient nausea and forced his head up. They were all staring at him, and it was an effort of will to straighten his spine.

“I am well,” he replied curtly, his gaze raking around the awkward little circle. He knew instinctively that none of these people got on with each other. The dark-haired one in the leather and manacles drew Draco’s attention. A strange kind of magic was pouring off him. It felt corrosive and put Draco further on edge.

“Quinjet’s going to be here in two minutes,” Stark said, the faceplate of his helm opening to reveal his face.

Draco had no precise idea what a ‘quin jet’ was, but supposed it was a form of aeroplane. Draco had never been on one, but he knew what the machines were. The thought of being trapped in such a thing without a broom or a wand—

He mentally quashed the rising panic and reminded himself that he ought to be dead. In fact, death would have been far easier than this hugely inconvenient and bewildering second chance. If it could be called that, which Draco seriously doubted.

“So, we all go back to SHIELD headquarters, and try to figure out where the rogues went,” Rogers said.

“What about Snowball here?” Stark said, jerking his chin at Draco.

It was hardly the worst name he had been called, but it told Draco just where he stood. To these people he was nothing but a stray, to be dragged along on a some sort of mission. It was good to be underestimated. So he waited in silence as the muggles seemed to think this problem over.

“Can’t leave him here,” Rogers replied. “He’ll have to come with us.” He glanced at Draco, as the obvious question occurred to him. “How come you’re here, anyway?”

Draco could hardly say ‘I was forced through an ancient door to the realm of the dead; but it has turned out to be an interdimensional gateway instead’. So he settled for the shortest version of the truth:

“I don't know, I simply woke up here.”

* * *

 

* * *

 

Thank you for reading.

Feedback is always appreciated. 

 


	2. All Aboard The Awkward Quinjet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, that was bloody quick, wasn't it?  
> This is what feedback gets you, beloved readers.

 

> _There's no pride in having been a child soldier._   Emmanuel Jal

Tony could not believe what he was hearing.

This scrawny kid, with his hobo-chic look and shadows like bruises under his eyes, had to be amnesiac. Or was that his fancy posh-boy-British way of saying he had gone on an epic drinking spree that got way out of control?

“Must have been one hell of a bender,” he said. He remembered a couple of alcohol-induced blackout adventures like that himself. And when he had finally come back to himself, it certainly felt like he ought to have died.

The almost-albino made no move to contradict him, in fact he barely seemed to register Tony's words. Perhaps the kid was trying to salvage some pride in a highly embarrassing situation. Tony could sympathise, but this was not the time for such stunts.

“Well, whatever. We’ll get you a phone and your dad can arrange your tickets home,” Tony said. The sooner this kid was out of the way of impending disaster, the better.

Pale eyes flickered slightly, but the kid stayed silent and kept up that rigid poker face. He was probably too proud to admit his youthful stupidity, and Tony could relate to that too. Damn it, but he saw something of himself in the younger man.

“ _Stark? We are descending to your position, clear the area.”_ Agent Romanova’s voice said in his helmet’s comms’ unit.

Suddenly reminded of the current emergency, he waved at the others. “Well, let’s make some space for our ride out of here.”

They all retreated to the treeline, Thor keeping one massive hand on Loki’s shoulder at all times. Rogers stuck close to the pair, while Malfoy seemed intent on keeping his distance from everyone. Tony let the suit’s faceplate close so that he could covertly study the younger man. He noticed the violent flinch as the quinjet burst from the low cloud cover and landed on the escarpment with more speed than grace.

“JARVIS?” he asked.

_“Yes, sir?”_

“Can you run a search for this kid and find out who he is? Facial recognition, name, birth certificates, the lot.”

_“Very well, sir.”_

“Okay! Let’s move it!” Rogers yelled over the roar of the engines. Thor dragged Loki up the gangplank, with Rogers in close attendance. Tony brought up the rear. Then he realised that Malfoy wasn’t by his side. He turned back and the faceplate slid open so that he could see the kid standing a few metres away from the gangplank, ramrod straight and impassive.

“Hey, come on, Lily of the Valley, time to go,” Tony said.

The young man’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but he remained a statue, his right hand flexing and his throat working. Was he afraid of flying?

“Anytime now,” Tony said, walking back down the gangplank. “We’re on a deadline.”

Malfoy’s posture, already as upright as Tony thought medically possible, seemed to straighten further. “I—”

“Stark! What’s going on?” Agent Coulson demanded, standing at the entrance of the quinjet. “And who is that?”

Tony glanced back and saw that the agent had a mobile phone in one hand, and was wearing a very stern expression as he advanced.

“A new friend of mine,” Tony said, stepping aside to reveal Malfoy. “Needs a ride out of here.”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed. “We are not a taxi service, Stark.”

“Not to sound nit-picky,” Tony retorted. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere. And the kid has no supplies to get himself out of here. Come on, Agent, we’re supposed to be the good guys.”

Coulson sighed and shook his head. “On your head be it,” he said, turning away again.

Tony turned to smirk at Malfoy, triumphant. “Come on, we’ll find you a blanket or something.”

The kid glared at him, but followed Tony into the quinjet after a long pause. Once inside, Tony saw that Coulson was speaking into his phone—probably reporting the fast-developing mess to Fury—while Thor and Steve strapped Loki into a set on one of the benches. Reindeer Games was still wearing the manacles Rogers had slapped on him in Stuttgart, and looked amused by the proceedings.

Tony encouraged Malfoy to sit on the opposite bank of seats, near the back. Out of the way. The kid sat down and stared at the rest of them, silent and watchful. Tony had the feeling the kid didn’t trust any of them. Small wonder. He sighed, sat down next to the strange youngster and removed his helmet.

“Sit tight,” he said. “We’ll be back at the super secret base soon enough.”

Malfoy didn’t reply and so they sat in silence for some time.

Then Rogers walked over to them.

“Hey, how are you doing?” he asked, looking at Malfoy.

The kid looked up at him, and Tony was struck by how bewildered he seemed.

“How about a drink?” Rogers suggested, trying to break through the ice in the kid’s pale grey eyes. “Think we only have water aboard, but it’s a long trip.”

The kid said nothing for a long moment. It had been the simplest offer, but it took him a long moment to reply. “Yes, thank you. Water would be nice.” He said it with perfect calm. The manners were flawless, but impersonal. As if being polite was more for Malfoy’s own honour than Rogers’ benefit. Tony repressed a smile as they watched Rogers fetch several from a cool box strapped down in a corner. The kid stared in open consternation at the plastic bottle he had been handed, and tipped it back and forth, watching the water slosh about. He licked his cracked lips and frowned, tapping it with a tattooed finger.

Tony thought that tiny frown adorable and the struggles hilarious. But he managed to contain the laugh to a slight smirk.

“You okay?” he asked, proud of how steady his voice was.

Malfoy lowered his hands and he barely turned his head to frown at Tony. “Fine.”

Tony’s smirk grew, and as much as he’d have liked to tease the kid, he had to speak with Coulson. So he got up and walked over to where Mr Special Agent was hovering behind the pilot’s seat. Rogers was also there, while Thor remained sitting next to Loki. The blond mountain of muscles was staring hard at Loki, who in turn was watching Malfoy. Which was puzzling and ominous. 

“Okay,” he said, low and serious to Coulson, while not taking his eyes off the scene. “So you’re sure that guy’s a friendly?” he asked, jerking his chin vaguely in Thor’s direction.

“Positive,” Coulson replied, just as quiet. “He’s an okay guy. Meant well the last time he was here after a misunderstanding had been cleared up.”

“Yeah, but a town in New Mexico paid the price before it was ‘cleared up’,” Tony said, for once very glad that Pepper had made him do his homework. “Have you ever met Loki before? Do you know if he has visited Earth recently?”

“No,” Coulson said. “Why?”

“Because he’s staring at our lost puppy the way a philatelist stares at a Penny Black.”

Even Rogers got that reference, and frowned at Loki. “What are you implying, Stark?”

If Tony could have shrugged, he would have. As it was, he settled for rolling his eyes slightly. “Well, either Loki’s got a thing for emaciated jailbait, or there’s more to the White Rabbit than meets the eye and that creepily smug bastard is the only one who knows it.”

Because Loki was smirking in a way that put Tony’s teeth on edge.

Rogers sighed, uncapped his own water bottle and drank half the contents in a few gulps. “Well, now’s not the time to start a fight.”

“Who said it would be a fight?” Tony countered. And who made this spangly blond the leader?

“Who’s to say it wouldn’t be?” Coulson replied. “Captain Rogers is right, we don’t want the jet to be knocked out of the air.” 

Tony glanced back in time to see Malfoy wrestling with the plastic bottle cap, biting his lip in an attempt to get it open. After an embarrassingly long moment, he succeeded and drained the contents in one go.

“What’s his name?” Coulson asked.

“Said it was Draco Malfoy,” Tony said. “I’ve got a search going, checking for any psychiatric hospitals missing a patient.”

Coulson frowned. “Why there?”

“Because he didn’t recognise me,” Tony replied.

While Rogers scoffed, Coulson took that as seriously as Tony did. “Really?”

“Not even a blink,” Tony confirmed. “And he acted like he’d never seen plastic before. Look at him now.”

Malfoy was surreptitiously inspecting the interior of the quinjet, his eyes flicking up to look at different things for brief seconds, then returning to his tattooed hands. 

“Tell me that isn’t strange,” Tony demanded. “Tell me the whole thing isn’t suspicious.”

Rogers’ expression of contempt morphed into a thoughtful frown. “That’s a little hinky,” he admitted.

Coulson didn’t square his shoulders (Tony was watching), but there was something about the way the guy paused before striding over to Malfoy that suggested loins were being girded.

Eww…

Tony asked JARVIS how his search for Malfoy was progressing, whispering the words into his earpiece.

“ _I am afraid that there are no results, sir_ ,” his AI replied. “ _Facial recognition in all accessible databases is also turning up no matches."_

“School records? Birth certificate? Driver’s license? Anything?” Tony demanded.

“ _No, sir_.” JARVIS sounded almost offended. “ _Those were the first things I looked for.”_

“Okay, okay, keep your circuit boards on,” Tony said. It was like having a bitchy housekeeper reminding you for the fifth time that they _had_ sent your tuxedo out for dry-cleaning.

“What are you smiling at?” Rogers’ question drew Tony’s attention round to Loki, who had turned to grin savagely at the Captain.

Tony felt a curl of dark foreboding in his gut. That guy knew something.

“Your stray is interesting,” the smug alien bastard said, jerking his chin at Malfoy.

Tony glanced Malfoy, who had not moved from his seat. In fact, the kid didn’t react to the ominous remark at all. He was leaning back in his seat, ankles crossed and his thin, clever hands fiddling with the bottle cap. He seemed divorced from the situation, wholly absorbed in the piece of plastic in his hands. As if none of it was happening.

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Rogers said fiercely, stepping between Loki and Malfoy and planting his hands on his hips, looking very heroic.

Tony felt a little ill. Questions were piling up and they suggested very bad things. He didn’t voice them, because there was so little solid information to go on, and it was painfully obvious the kid didn’t trust any of them.

Loki’s grin sharpened, but he said nothing as he settled himself more comfortably in the bench seat.

Malfoy, meanwhile, turned to look up at Coulson. “Pardon my interruption,” he drawled, in obvious contradiction to the polite words. “But who did you say you worked for?”

“I am Special Agent Coulson, from Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division,” Coulson said.

“American,” Malfoy said. The word loaded, but with what, Tony couldn’t decipher. “And we are travelling there now?”

Coulson’s smile was small and pleasant. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it with a civilian.”

Malfoy tipped his slightly to one side, but didn’t argue. “Very well, Special Agent Coulson,” he said, and in that drawling accent, it sounded very sarcastic. Perhaps it was. “Would it be too much to ask for the use of a bathroom and the loan of some clean clothes once we arrive at the mysterious destination?”

Okay, with that accent (a totally unfair advantage) the kid’s sass was off the charts. Tony was impressed and vaguely jealous. Especially since he was so polite about it. He gleefully noted the way Coulson took his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was too slow, too deliberate.

Tony walked over to them, and was a little surprised to see Rogers turning around to join in the conversation. He was just in time to see Coulson’s mouth twitch in that ominous way which heralded some suppressed emotion. Probably psychotic rage.

“Of course,” Coulson said. “We should be there in another two hours.” Then he whirled away, striding back to the cockpit, phone in hand. All wound up and primed to bitch at Fury for the extra shit he had to deal with.

Tony sat down beside Malfoy again. “You know, buddy, there’s a john over there,” he said, pointing across at a door to one side of the cockpit area.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to the door, then to Tony’s face before glancing up at Rogers. “You mistake, we are not friends,” he said.

“Hey, not fair—I got you that water, didn’t I?” Rogers protested, but with a smile, as if false protest would lighten the mood. 

Malfoy arched a dark blond eyebrow at him. “We have been acquainted for less than an hour. I would hardly call it a friendship.”

Tony feigned a hurt sigh. “And after we rescued you from the Belgian wilderness, too. Harsh, kid. Really harsh.”

Malfoy’s icy gaze slid round to fix on him for a brief moment. His expression was so blank he might have been a statue. In that moment, it seemed the kid was irritated, but Tony couldn’t be sure. Then he got up, crossed the deck and shut himself inside the bathroom.

“Wow,” Rogers said. “ _That_ was harsh.” Then he turned away and went back to the cockpit—probably because his Special Agent fan club was easier to bear than the combined awesome of Tony Stark and the White Wunderkind.

A few minutes later Malfoy reappeared from the bathroom and returned to his seat. Tony guessed that he’d used the john and washed his face, since strands of his limp hair were sticking wetly to his face and neck. The kid glanced once at Thor and Loki, before quickly moving his gaze back to his clasped hands.

Okay, that was weird.

It wasn’t as if the capes and armour were particularly intimidating. Eccentric, yes, but what could one expect from aliens with misapprehensions of godhood? And how could Tony not take advantage of an opening like that?

“So, what do you think is up with those two?” Tony asked, tilting his head to indicate Thor and Loki. “Fancy dress, or delusions of grandeur?”

The kid blinked slowly, but his gaze did not stray from his hands. “Oh no, I suspect that it is very real grandeur.”

“What makes you say that?” Tony asked. The kid’s eyes bright, sharp with intelligence, so perhaps he was mad but not stupid.

Malfoy picked up the second bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and took a small sip before replying. “Intuition.”

It was wholly unsatisfactory answer. Tony scoffed and stood to pace the length of the quinjet before returning to stand in front of Malfoy again. “And what does your intuition say about me?” he demanded.

Malfoy was silent for a long moment. “That you are a man of wealth, power and great fame.”

Parlour tricks, Sherlock Holmes deduction shit. Anyone could have told Tony that after the most cursory observation. He wasn’t impressed.

“And you honestly don’t know who I am?” he asked. “You don’t know why I’m famous?”

Malfoy did not answer, but instead closed his eyes and tipped his head back, as if preparing to sleep.

“Hey, Snow White,” Tony said, his voice harsh. “I asked you a question.”

“And I am not obliged to answer it, Mr Stark,” Malfoy replied, his eyes still closed. “It is only your pride at stake, after all.”

“No, it’s not,” Tony insisted. “You just appear in the middle of nowhere, with no idea of where you are, how you got there, or who I am. And _everyone’s_ heard of me.”

“I haven’t.”

Loki. Smartass little shit.

“Nor, I confess, have I.” Thor said a second later, sounding a bit sheepish.

Great. Just… great.

Malfoy didn’t open his eyes, but his smirk was small and triumphant.

“Neither of them are from Earth!” Tony exclaimed, frustrated by this ridiculous conversation. “Seriously, ask any of the _humans_ on board and they’ll tell you that I’m one of the most famous people in the world!”

Tony turned back to Malfoy, hoping that would rattle the kid, but was amazed to find that Snow White had pulled a… Snow White.

The brat had fallen asleep. He was still sitting bolt upright, with his hands resting on his knees. But his face had softened. Without the tension and attitude, Tony could see that the kid was not handsome, his features were too pointy and delicate for that appellation, but his looks were compelling. And painfully young.

* * *

The war had taught him to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself. Sleep was not an option when surrounded by so many dangerous individuals in an unsafe flying muggle contraption.  But a deep Occlumency exercise would allow him to better manage his stress and exhaustion.

Talking to Stark was not only tiring, but also a profound waste of time. It would be impossible to convince these muggles that he was from another world, so he might as well allow them to make up their own narrative. And Merlin knew what they might do to him if they discovered he was a wizard. Did magic users even exist in this world? If so, were they in hidden communities, or disparate individuals?

Either way, he was most definitely alone and surrounded by potential enemies, because all muggles were threats to his kind.  

But what muggles they were! The flying armour, the gaudy costumes, the flying craft he was now sitting in, those two oddly powerful men in armour, who were named for Norse gods. It was all too strange and being hurled into the middle of it without explanation was overwhelming.

And he’d really like a bloody explanation as to how he had survived going through the Veil. It was supposed to lead to death, not some other world where nothing made sense and the muggles were so advanced it seemed to be magical. A different kind of magic, with no finesse and much more noise.

He could not trust them, their activities and motivations were unfathomable. Particularly in regards to him. Although they also seemed remarkably untroubled by Loki, who Draco could have informed them was bad news. There had been a genuine Seer amongst the Blacks in Draco’s direct ancestry. Draco liked to think that the veriest traces of that gift had lingered in his blood to sharpen his instincts. And those instincts were now telling him that the so-called ‘Loki’ was very dangerous and very magical. There was far more going on than just the magic roiling off him like acrid smoke, twisted and wrong. There was something about him that Draco recognised. And he had been very careful to not reveal he had noticed Loki's staring. But when Loki had called him 'interesting', a sour taste had risen in the back of his mouth. That word might hold any number of meanings to Loki, but Draco wasn't fooled into thinking any of them were good. He could only hope that Loki was not referring to his magic. That would be the hardest to explain. 

Might... could... would...

Enough of this fruitless speculation. It had to be a miserable side-effect of the aching exhaustion that was gaining ground every minute since he had stepped through the Veil. How long ago had that been? It felt like nothing, and like an age.

There had been no corresponding stone arch in that forest, not so much as a tickle of the incredible magic that he had been exposed to in the Ministry. 

Gone forever.

He felt so old and so very lonely.

He let the feelings have their moment, he carefully dissected them and teased them into rationality, then packed them away in the back of his mind. He suspected the hurt would never go away or ease, only become familiar with time. For now, he had to manage his fear and stress. These muggles had offered him no violence, and might even be trying to help him. But that did mean being trapped on this flying thing in close proximity to ‘Loki’ and ‘Thor’. The other muggles were bizarre Americans, but that might just have been a tautological evaluation.

_Muggles._

He may not have harboured the same overweening hatred as his parents, but he was afraid of them. Of what they could do. His parents had spoken of weapons that could obliterate cities in seconds. Their recent wars had been waged across the entire world, almost annihilating entire generations in a few years. The sheer scale of the killing was staggering. The endless variety of ways they destroyed.

And the truly horrifying concept of genocide.

Looking back, he now knew that he should have recognised the depth of the fatal hypocrisy. The hubris of the self-righteous justification. Draco had read Thucydides. How had it taken him so long to recognise that pattern for what it was?

Patterns. It was all about patterns. What pattern was forming from this strange situation?

Just as he was drawing up the information he had tacitly gathered so far, Draco was pulled from his abstraction by a sudden movement of the aircraft. He opened his eyes and looked around for any sign of worry on the muggles’ faces.

Were they crashing?

But the muggles seemed calm enough, so he guessed that the erratic movements of the craft were not _supposed_ to be alarming. Even so, he dug his fingers into the hard seat of the bench and forced his face to remain impassive as he felt the craft drop through the air in a series of unpleasant lurches. Not even the very worst broom would give such a miserable performance unless it had been hexed beforehand.

Eventually, there was a sharp bump and Draco’s head snapped back painfully. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

“Alright there, Blondie?”

Such a pointless, impertinent question. Draco glared at Stark and vowed that in the near future, he would summon the energy for a wandless jinx that would replace the armoured muggle's voice with the screeches of a monkey.

Then he turned away and got to his feet to watch the rear hatch open.

Instantly, a squadron of heavily armed muggles in some kind of dark body armour swarmed into the craft. Draco flinched back, hands raised and a shield charm under his tongue, ready to—

But the muggles swept right past him, surrounding Thor and Loki. Everyone ignored Draco. Taking advantage of this, he steeled himself and walked out of the aircraft. He was extremely glad to be free of that stifling space, so close to people he was swiftly growing to dislike.

There was shouting from inside the craft, but Draco was more preoccupied with what was in front of him. He failed to comprehend what he was seeing. They seemed to be in some sort of muggle building. But that did not explain the noise. It was a high-pitched roar of vast machines, and the clanking and banging of metal on metal. There was no evidence of where the noise was coming from, so Draco suspected that there were more buildings nearby supplying the cacophony. Then a bell started to ring and several brightly dressed muggles started to run about and yell at each other.

“Calm down!” said one of them as they jogged past Draco. “It’s not like we’re going to fall out of the sky.”

What? They were in some kind of colossal machine?

Draco was trapped inside another flying vessel. Surrounded by innumerable heavily armed muggles, who would surely kill him if they learned even a portion of the truth.

He felt his throat tighten.

Trapped. Again.

What was going on?

Draco whirled about, trying to keep track of the muggles running past him. Two of them jostled him, and another swore at him in Italian. Draco, who was fluent in several languages, was drawing breath to retort, when a hand closed around his upper arm. All the old war reflexes kicked in, and Draco whirled round, trying to pull free, his hand flexing for a wand that must have been snapped long before his first trial. Panic strangled him and he was too bloody weak to—

“Whoah! Easy, there!”

“Hey, Casper! Chill!”  

Captain Rogers was holding his arm, and next to him was Stark-Of-The-Never-Ending-Nicknames. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

“Unhand me, Captain,” Draco said, his voice icy. He may have been too weak to consciously cast a spell, but accidental magic was always a possibility. And Merlin knew what it would do to all these machines.

“Uh-huh. And watch you collapse? I don’t think so,” Rogers replied, already leading him towards a door.

“Besides,” Stark said. “I need to see what kind of set-up Nick thinks he’s got going on here,” Stark said and followed them inside. “And you don’t want to stick around for the next bit.”

“Captain! Mr Stark!”

It was Special Agent Coulson who had spoken to him on the aircraft. He was approaching them at the sort of brisk walk that could probably outpace a charging werewolf.

“Oh, hey there, Agent,” Stark said. “Keen to show our young friend to the showers, like you promised him?” He somehow managed to make it sound like Special Agent Coulson was going to rape Draco, which was unlikely. 

Draco, still annoyed about Rogers' proprietary grip on his arm, pulled away from the man to turn and face Special Agent Coulson.

“And some clean clothes, as I recall,” Coulson said, ignoring Stark's crudity and eyeing Draco’s ragged robes. “Come with me, then.”

“See you later,” Rogers said called after them cheerfully.

“And whatever you do, don’t drop the soap!” Stark added.

Both Draco and Coulson ignored that comment as they walked away.

“So,” Coulson said after a few corridors had been travelled in silence. “What were you really doing in the middle of the Ardennes? We scanned the area, you know, and there were no heat signatures to indicate a campsite or vehicle.”

Draco decided to stick to his previous cryptic (yet truthful) answer: “I don’t know, so I cannot explain it.”

“And before that? What do you remember?”

“It was very cold.” Draco was a master of dishonesty by omission. And here he did not even have to practise occlumency to hide the truth. It was almost refreshing.

“Hm.” Coulson nodded, his face still blank, but Draco knew that he was thinking hard. The muggle then unlocked a door and led Draco into a room lined with what appeared to be steel wardrobes and cabinets. “I’m afraid your options are rather limited,” Coulson said, gesturing about the room. “But help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. He advanced into the room and started pulling open the drawers and wardrobes. After considerable searching, Draco managed to unearth a tolerable selection of clothes in his size. All muggle tailoring, of course, but at that point Draco was prepared to wear one of Dumbledore’s eye-wateringly garish robes if it meant he could change out of his own reeking clothes.

“Ready?” Coulson asked from the doorway.

Draco nodded.

“Let’s get you to a shower, then.” Coulson turned away and Draco followed, his arms full of clothes. They went further down into the bowels of the machine and Coulson opened another nondescript door.

“These are my quarters—please respect my privacy.” Coulson’s light, casual tone managed to suggest that the consequences would be the very definition of ‘painful’.

Draco had been on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse on several unforgettable occasions, and so this unspoken threat was unimpressive. Nevertheless, he nodded and expressed his gratitude for ‘such a singular privilege’. The muggle's eyes narrowed and he stared at Draco in a very keen manner. He kept perfectly still and waited for the blow to fall, but after a long moment, Coulson merely nodded, handed him a clean towel and sat on the bed while Draco shut himself in the bathroom.

It was a relief to strip out of robes that had once been black. But time and hard use had leeched most the dye from the wool, leaving them a shabby grey. And they had cost a fortune.

After a few frustrating attempts, he managed to get the shower working and stepped under the hot spray. It was a blissful. The water circling the plughole was grey and Draco eagerly applied soap and shampoo to his person in liberal quantities. When he stepped out of the shower, he decided to take stock of what Azkaban and the Veil had done to him.

“Merlin’s hairy arse-crack,” he breathed softly, gazing at what little he could see of his reflection in the mirror over the tiny sink.

It was impressive. In a truly horrible way.

His skin was so pale it was almost luminescent and his wild hair hung to his shoulders. It had lost what little colour it ever had. His bones were too close to the surface for his liking; his collarbone stood out like spars, he could see his ribs and his hips jutted out, framing an almost concave stomach. His arms and legs were thin, the muscles diminished by lack of good food.

And that was the least of it.

The _sectumsempra_ scars jagged in silvery lines from his shoulder, across his chest and belly and down to his hip. The hippogriff scars from Third Year had laid open his right arm and although it had healed well and his movement wasn’t impaired, the marks would never go away. There were also the later burns and curse marks that punctuated his childhood scars. These were more random and dotted his chest, back and limbs.

Then there were the tattoos. His service record.

He had been tattooed while in Azkaban. As if the faded Dark Mark wasn’t sufficient proof of his wretched part in the war. Incarcerated dark wizards, murderers and criminals thought it worthwhile to mark their skins with symbols of their crimes. For the Death Eaters, it was a way to rededicate themselves to their departed Dark Lord. They would be living testaments to their cause.

Draco’s were numerous and varied.  None of the ink held over his scars, leaving them clearly visible. Draco hated himself for submitting to further mutilation. Of course, the alternative had been to confess and seal his own death, but even so…

His eyes fell on the only tattoo he had actually asked for: hidden beside a rune  on the back of his right hand lay the tiny cursive letters ‘S.S.’, in perfect replica of his mentor and friend’s handwriting.

For a second his eyes stung. He shook his head, blinking hard to force these thoughts and feelings away. Regret and grief would do him no good here.

“Special Agent Coulson?” he called.

“Yes?” came the man’s voice through the door.

“May I borrow a razor?” Draco asked.

“Cabinet under the sink. Just disposables, I’m afraid.”

Draco had no idea what ‘disposables’ meant in this context, but it hardly mattered. He retrieved a razor from a packet and after carefully inspecting it, decided it would serve. 

So he dried himself off, wrapped the towel about his waist and carefully shaved off the stubble. Then he combed his hair free of what felt like ten thousand tangles. As he did this, he considered his options. They were few, and he didn’t like them. So he’d just have to do his best as events unfurled around him.

After all, the neutral zone never lasted long.

So he put on the close-fitting black trousers, the skin-tight under shirt, the looser black shirt and a black jacket. It had a subtle black-on-black eagle insignia on the shoulders, but that didn’t bother Draco. So long as it wasn’t a snake or a lion, he didn’t give a damn.

His dragon hide boots would last another eight hundred years so long as they weren't chewed by a crup, but the chances of that happening were now minimal. Draco pulled them back on and was tolerably satisfied by the fact that they did not seem wholly at odds with the rest of the clothes. Well, they were black.

He picked up his robes and gave them a shake, acting out of habit rather than because a simple shake would help these garments in the slightest.

But as he did this, he felt something small and hard tap his ink-blackened wrist. He ran his fingers over the inside breast pocket.

He withdrew the velvet pouch which the Unspeakable had put there back in the Chamber of Death. Curious, Draco untied the drawstrings and up-ended the contents onto his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are evil, but then again, this was written by the girl who got sorted into Slytherin by her teacher and entire class at school. (It was many years ago, back when only the first three books had been published.) 
> 
> Feedback is amazing and makes me write faster.


	3. Discoveries, Obfuscations and Arguments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. I've been on holiday (deliberately exiling myself from the internet) and by the time I got around to editing the next chapter, I realised I had a ton of neglected work to do. Typical. 
> 
> Hugest thanks for all your amazing feedback and encouragement -- I promise to reply to all your lovely comments tomorrow! 
> 
> Cheers,  
> ~ L. 
> 
> P.S. Apologies for any mistakes. It's midnight and I'm exhausted.

 

 

> _"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."_ — André Malraux

* * *

 

Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, a.k.a. the guy who felt vaguely ill at all the ultra-modern bullshit ways for solving humanity’s oldest problems. And he was so god-damn irritated about having to put up with them. Part of him just wanted to explore the so-called ‘modern’ world, to understand the changes. But the boundless, directionless fear, the mind-boggling loneliness and sense of displacement would strangle that innocent curiosity. And then there was the anger, the helpless rage at the magnitude of the unfairness of his fate. He hadn’t had much time to prepare for his own death, but he had been ready for it. Thinking about all those innocent people who would be killed, he had no choice. All because a particularly crazy Nazi had decided to play at God with the Tesseract.

And now a new, crazy emergency centred on the Cube had erupted. They should have learned that it was safer to lock the thing away and forget about it. It was far too dangerous to mess with. Steve remembered the other world which had briefly been shown to him and Red Skull during those fateful seconds before his enemy’s destruction. The impossible depths and colours and lights, the allure of that world. Steve had almost forgotten to breathe in the presence of such a vision.

Did Thor and Loki come from such a place? Could such harsh, awesome beauty even sustain life?

Steve had no idea, and although Agent Romanova had described them as ‘basically gods’, he didn’t buy that for a second. The big golden-haired Thor was as straightforward and earnest as the ancient warriors Steve vaguely remembered reading about in literature classes at school. People so powerful that it beggared belief. They tried to gloss over the ‘simple’ part of this archetype, but it was damn impossible to erase from the narrative. Sir Lancelot in a fucking cape and swinging a hammer. Not that Steve could really throw stones, because _hello, trusty vibranium shield._ It was wonderfully versatile and useful, but it was still anachronistic at best.

Yeah, yeah. The punk-ass half-pint from Brooklyn actually read and studied really hard before he made good and wound up an experimental super soldier. Why? His asthma meant he was in the library as a kid rather than being forced to exercise. Not just a dumb blond, after all.

But boy, did he feel simple after he got involved in the super-soldier programme. Not as thick as the other potential candidates, but certainly ignorant as shit compared to Peggy Carter and Howard Stark and Dr. Erskine. Yet they had been gracious, kind and inclusive. They didn’t laugh at him, despite all his many failings. They listened when he talked and they had the decency to look him in the eye. Steve had tried so hard to raise his game. To enter their fast, meaningful sphere. To see the world and move through it the way they did.

And now… now…

Welcome to the new world, Captain Rogers. Oh, and while you’re adjusting to the radically altered state of reality and your own situation, would you mind dealing with the Tesseract again? We keep fucking it up. Your muscles and shield seem to be the only thing that can deal with it.

It all boiled down to that damn cube. It sparked the super-soldier programme, it accelerated the war and destroyed so many lives with no result.

The price was too high. Always too high. Steve was probably doomed to pay the price for the rest of his unnatural existence for what happened in the space of a few fated months. Hubris must have been mixed in there somewhere, but Steve couldn’t be sure where it featured, precisely.

However, its current manifestation had to be Tony Stark. The son of a dead friend—why were all his friends dead or irreparably ravaged by time?—was the epitome of this new world. Fast-talking, wise-cracking, towering intellect and skill; arrogant, over-confident and selfish. Just like his father, God rest Howard’s soul. But there was something else. Steve wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a darkness there which Howard hadn’t possessed. At least, not when Steve had known him. Who knew what kind of things happened to Howard after the war? Something awful, surely, for that genius to be involved in nuclear weapons.

Nuclear weapons.

Shit.

Dropped on _civilians_. 

Fucking hell.

Steve had been physically sick several times when he had read about that. Hadn’t slept for two days after he saw pictures of the aftermath and the victims. It was almost enough to hand over his commission, collect his substantial back-pay and pension, then march off into the sunset, his shield slung over his shoulder and high dudgeon in every step.

But no.

The record was on repeat: maniacs with delusions of godhood toting weapons of mass destruction and intent upon conquering earth.

But now with aliens.

Stranger than fiction, of course, and Steve had never even had the chance to laugh at such ludicrous subject matter in print _before_ the plane crash.

Further bullshit unfairness.

Steve couldn’t afford to laugh.

There was no fucking time.

Not with Agent Romanova (a cold-blooded dame, way scarier than Peggy) treating him like a soldier, a colleague. Not with Stark throwing sardonic looks his way when Steve got confused by the modern world. Not with Dr Banner on board the Helicarrier, a nice man concealing an uncontrollable destructive force. Not with Fury’s cryptic remarks and unreasonable demands. Not with Agent Coulson’s awkward conduct—Steve found that as embarrassing as it had been the first time around with a fucking chorus line at his back.

And it wasn’t the fucking time to laugh when Steve thought about the strange British guy covered in tattoos. Draco Malfoy—Christ, what an awful name, poor kid—seemed to be as lost as Steve; flinching at the same things Steve remembered being frightened of when he was first introduced to the modern world’s jaw-droppingly advanced technology. There was something off there. Way off.

So, essentially, everything had been stirred up to peak clusterfuck conditions.

But Steve had never been one to back down from a challenge.

He could do this all damn day.

* * *

An undetectable extension charm must have been applied to the pouch because a large number of things fell out, spilling over his fingers and onto the floor.

Draco stared incredulously at the considerable cache spread out before him. It included a Firebolt Supreme, a large number of books, a small bag, several sets of spare clothes and—and—

His _wand_ in its wrist-holster. The leather was singed, worn and extremely soft, having seen more combat than Potter could have ever dreamed of.

Hawthorn, ten inches, with a unicorn hair core.

Breathless, Draco crouched to pick up his wand. A painful rush of magic ran through his body and he felt the tattoos briefly warm on his skin. They writhed briefly before settling again.

Draco ignored the display, his mind reeling at this amazing stroke of fortune. Because, really, this was taking all the bloody biscuits and the silver platter too. What the fucking fuck?

How?

_Why?_

He withdrew the wand from the holster and tested all the items separately for curses, jinxes or any other nasty magical surprises. Nothing.

Even more suspiciously there was a letter. Draco stared at the envelope for a long moment. It was addressed to him, but that only suggested a trap. He tested every item individually, and with meticulous care. Nothing was cursed or be-spelled in any way—although the books had several charms on them to make them appear thinner than they actually were.

And that only left the letter (definitely just a piece of parchment). He broke the blank wax seal and carefully unfolded the single sheet.

_To Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy Esq._

_In the unlikely event of your failure to die as desired, and your subsequent transportation to some other undetected realm, this care package is intended to make your permanent, irreversible exile a dignified one._

_As befits the heir of ancient and noble pureblood families, and in consideration of your true allegiances in the war, this is considered a fitting outcome. Be assured that no one shall know the truth about your covert efforts and the remainder of your estate will be distributed to those most affected by your family’s and your own war crimes._

_Sincerely,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt  
Minister of Magic_

_P.S. I really hope you’re reading this, you little shit. I found the letter and pensieve memories amongst Snape’s personal effects. You didn’t deserve this. You’ll find your Order of Merlin 1 st Class in the money bag along with the majority of your personal vault’s capital. _

It was damnably brief and deeply insulting. The post-script made a strange lump manifest in Draco’s throat.

After a moment of overwhelming sensation, he realised that it was pure rage.

How dare that—that—!

The paper burst into flames under his fingers and he hastily let it go. It fluttered to the floor and he stamped out the flames. Half the paper was left and it now read:

_To Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy Esq._

_In the unlikely event of your failure to die as des_  
_undetected realm, this care pa_  
_dignified one._

 _As befits the heir of ancient and noble hou_  
_war, this is considered a fitting outco_  
_covert efforts and the remainde_  
_and your own war crimes._

_Sincerely,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_  
_Minister of Magic_

 _P.S. I really hope you’re reading this, you little sh_  
_amongst Snape’s personal effects. You didn’t deserve thi_  
_in the money bag along with the majority of your pers_

He crushed the paper into a ball and shoved it back in the velvet pouch, willing his hands to stop shaking. He then rolled up the sleeves on his right arm and buckled on the wand holster. It lay like a second skin against the inside of his forearm and he felt so much safer as he rolled the sleeves back down to hide it. He flicked his fingers a few times, to check the draw of the wand, making sure it didn’t get caught on the sleeves. Just as he was fiddling with the cuff, Coulson knocked on the door.

“Everything okay?” the agent asked through the door.

“Fine,” Draco said, correctly interpreting the question as a polite chivvy. He quickly put everything but his wand back in the velvet pouch, tied it shut and put it in the inner breast pocket of the borrowed jacket. He then affixed the pouch to the material with a sticking charm because he could not afford to lose it.

He also bundled up his old robes and clothes, tucked them under his left arm and opened the door. “Sorry for the wait. I picked up more mud in Belgium than I realised,” he said with a beguiling Society Smile, patented by his mother.

Coulson scrutinised him closely for a second. “We’re needed on the bridge—apparently Stark is asking where we’ve imprisoned you.”

Draco gestured to his bundle of clothes. “What shall I do with these?” he asked.

“Would you like to keep them?” Coulson asked.

Apart from the contents of the velvet pouch and his own body, the clothes were the last tangible link he had to his old life. He could _scourgify_ them until they were as clean as magic could render them. But what would be the point? They were just clothes. And there was nothing unusual about them. The fabrics were wool and silk blends and the tailoring bespoke but not extraordinary.

Draco hesitated for a second, then made up his mind. “I recall using the word ‘borrow’, not ‘take’,” he said. “Perhaps they might be stored somewhere until I can have them cleaned?”

Coulson produced a bag from a drawer and Draco put them inside. He made a point of thanking the muggle again. His father would have considered his son’s impeccable aristocratic manners wasted on this man, but Draco had learned that snobbery was not synonymous with nobility.

And Coulson seemed to appreciate what Draco considered to be common courtesies.

They made their way along more corridors, and up several flights of stairs before being intercepted by—

“Hey! El Blanco scrubs up good!”

Draco turned to see Stark advancing upon him. The man had changed into a different suit. This one was made of fabric.

“Jesus, you look like one of Botticelli’s angels, stepped off the canvas and into a leather jacket—how the hell do you keep the ladies at bay?” Stark went on, humour gleaming in his dark eyes as he took in Draco’s (debatably) improved appearance.  

 _By being a notorious and prolific murderer,_ Draco thought. But instead, he arched an eyebrow in amusement. “Magic,” he replied. It did no harm if they thought he was joking.

“Speaking of ladies, Special Secret Agent Man here needs to be reunited with his own lady love,” Stark went on, clapping Coulson on the shoulder.

Coulson’s lips tightened slightly and he said nothing.

“He doesn’t get much time off work,” Stark added in a conspiratorial manner to Draco. “But that won’t stop him.”

“Or you from interfering, it seems,” Draco replied, his tone dry.

“Nothing can stop that,” Coulson muttered from Stark’s other side.

Draco smirked as they rounded a corner in time to hear someone saying: “… what do they need the iridium for?”

“It’s a stabilising agent,” Stark said, by way of announcing his presence. “I’m just saying,” he continued to Coulson. “Pick a weekend and I’ll fly you to Portland.”

“Thanks,” Coulson whispered, clearly desperate to get away.

“Keep the love alive,” Stark insisted. Then he turned back to the others around the table and advanced into the space. “Means the portal won't collapse on itself, like it did at SHIELD.”

Draco hung back and watched Stark continued to pace around the table.

“… it means the portal can open as wide, and stay open as long, as Loki wants.” Stark continued, punctuating his explanations with irreverent asides and comments that were calculated to annoy the others. Draco appreciated the showmanship and clear manner in which the man asserted his dominance in the space provided.

Draco leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Stark’s display was an excellent distraction, but Draco’s Seeker-sharp eyes caught him briefly touching one of the metal and glass contraptions. Stark deliberately obscured the gesture with his body, passing it off as a casual movement. Not wanting to give the game away, Draco did not look at the spot Stark had touched, and instead kept still, letting only his eyes move to track the American muggle’s movements.

Moreover, since everyone seemed to be speaking a language closely related to English  (but with serious dialectical differences) he was obliged to listen closely. He may not understand the technical part of the discussion, the rest was clearly vital. Apparently Loki intended to open a door to another world, using some kind of power source and bringing an army through to subjugate mankind.

The idea was fascinating. Deliberately opening doors between worlds and controlling them. Could Draco’s own arrival in this world be connected to what Loki was planning? Had it somehow pulled him into this world rather than into Death? How had he even survived? Could he go back to his own world via this muggle technology? Draco wanted to speak, to share some of his knowledge and so manipulate the muggles’ inquiring minds to answer a few of his questions. But the risks far outweighed the potential benefits. He would bide his time.

“It’s good to meet you, Dr Banner,” Stark was saying to the other dark-haired man as they shook hands. “Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”

As Dr Banner looked embarrassed and muttered a sarcastic ‘thanks’, Draco wondered what on earth Stark meant by that. Perhaps it was a muggle euphemism for something revolting. Draco desperately wanted to find his own answers, but asking questions would be too suspicious. The other thing he wanted was a cigarette. A filthy muggle habit which he ought never to have picked up, much less carried over into this world.

Then a tall black man wearing an eyepatch and a long leather coat strode into the room. “And just who is this unwanted groupie that you picked up in the Belgian wilderness?” he demanded, pointing at Draco, but not looking at him. He chose, instead, to send a monocular glare around the space indiscriminately.

Draco was rather grateful to be underestimated. His perceived worth had to remain low if he was ever going to get away from these people.

So he fell back on the familiar persona of spoiled aristocrat that had served him so well at Hogwarts.

“Draco Malfoy,” he drawled, stepping forward and lifting his chin in a brief, salutary gesture of acknowledgement. “How do you do, Mr…?” he trailed off, an encouraging lilt to his voice.

The man stared at him in outrage. As if Draco’s greeting had insulted him.

“I am _Director_ Fury, and you do not have permission to be aboard my motherfucking ship,” he snarled.

Draco arched an eyebrow, but did not remark on the unnecessary vulgarity. “Director Fury, I cannot be held responsible for Stark’s decisions. You and I are both suffering the consequences.”

“And why the fuck were you in the middle of nowhere in Belgium?” Fury demanded, stepping into Draco’s personal space and staring down him. It was a futile attempt at intimidation. But then again, after being subjected to Fenrir Greyback’s version of Looming With Intent everything else was reduced to amateur theatrics.

Draco sighed. “I don’t remember. It’s all a dreadful blur,” he said, unconcerned by Fury’s posturing. “Look, feel free to drop me off wherever you like—I promise not to say a word.” 

“Oh really?” Fury demanded, voice far too loud considering how close he was to Draco. “And how can I guarantee that?”

Draco shrugged and smirked. “Because I promised?” he asked, as if the word of a gentleman ought to be enough. In a manifestly better world, it would certainly have been the case. And these muggles would believe such trite falsehoods.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be in the presence of this world’s muggle answer to Mad Eye Moody.

“No, because your ass is going to be in custody until we can figure out who the fuck you are, and why you’re here,” Fury snarled.

Draco’s smirk grew by a tiny fraction, and he deliberately looked past the man and raised an eyebrow at Stark, who was on the verge of grinning.

Fury turned to glare at Stark. “Damn it, Stark! Now was not the time to turn this place into a tourist attraction!” he bellowed.

Draco, used to sudden bursts of shouting and violence, kept very still and waited in case Fury felt like taking his displeasure out on the nearest person. He had his wand, but he wanted to keep it as a last resort—and at this range, he wouldn’t be able to stop a bullet unless it was through a feat of unparalleled wandless magic. Besides, he could take a moderate beating, even in his current state.

So he was surprised when Fury turned away from him and advanced upon Stark. Draco slowly released the breath he was holding and checked the nails of his left hand. He was extremely confused. Why had the muggle not attacked him? He was smaller, thinner and hadn’t slept or eaten in over two days. He was the softest target in the room. 

Then the argument swung from Stark’s bad decisions (and accusations that Agent Coulson covertly encouraged those bad decisions) back to him.

“… Well,” said Stark, annoyed and defensive now. “From what I gather, he started drinking in London and came to in Belgium, miles from anywh—”

“I think he can speak for himself,” Fury said with deliberate slowness, interrupting Stark. He turned to glare at Draco again. “Well?”

Draco silently thanked his parents for a childhood spent learning correct posture, bearing and countenance. He lifted his chin slightly. 

“I do not know precisely how I came to be there.” It was the truth, albeit incomplete. 

“Do you know _approximately?_ ” Rogers asked, earnest and encouraging. As if Draco was a scared child who needed to trust the well-meaning adults who just wanted to look after him.

The idea was so repugnant that Draco did not have to feign his sneer. “Not even that,” he said. “It’s all a blank.”

“Where do you live? Where’s your home?”

 _Far further than is fair or just,_ Draco thought sourly. “Britain—but I’m currently between residences.” He invented quickly. “My lease expired,” he said.

“You were house-hunting in the Ardennes?” the red-haired woman asked, her tone dry. Like all the rest of these people, she thought he was simple-minded. 

“No. Nor do I know how I arrived in Belgium,” Draco said, weary of repeating himself. But he knew that when the stories change, that’s when you have to become suspicious. He spread his hands in a gesture of helpless bewilderment. “And clearly I cannot stop you if you want to imprison me. I understand.” Of course he understood. He knew that he was in the heart of a very secret organisation during a crisis, and that the muggles considered him to be a civilian who was very much in the way.

“Hey,” Stark said. “No one is locking you up—you’re a guest with memory loss. Stick with me kid, and after this is through, I’ll fly you back to England.”

Draco wouldn’t hold his breath. Still, he nodded. “Thank you, Stark. Now, I do believe that I have wasted enough of Director Fury’s valuable time.”

Because the throbbing vein in the Director’s forehead was not a good sign.

“Indeed,” Thor said, finally adding his voice to the conversation. “While I sympathise with your situation, Malfoy, I must ask that we get on with the matter at hand.”

Draco, grateful to be pushed down the list of pressing concerns, leaned his shoulders against the wall and watched the rest of them talk.

* * *

The kid looked simultaneously better and worse now that he had washed and changed. He now appeared bleached. The sharp cheekbones and piercing silvery eyes were the same, but the borrowed clothes revealed his horribly scrawny frame, and his hair—previously wildly tangled—sat about his face and neck in damp curls that made him look like a renaissance painting.

Tony looked at Malfoy and wasn’t sure what to make of him or the situation. It was clear that he was a terribly haunted young man, his silvery gaze was tired and indifferent. He didn’t trust any of them. From the look of it, he probably hadn’t trusted anyone in years.

But he didn’t blink as he stared around the room. Blinking was nerves, and this kid didn’t seem to have any. This kid’s cool, scrutinising gaze was a match for Romanova’s most intent look.

“Well, since you were the one who found him, he’s now your responsibility,” Fury said to Tony, a horrible light in his eye.

Rogers shifted in his chair to see Tony’s reaction, but the movement caught Fury’s attention.

“Yours too, Captain,” he said with dark satisfaction. “Make sure Stark doesn’t run too many experiments on him. Since I was hoping that Stark might join Dr Banner in tracking the cube.”

“Why don’t you ask _him_ , then?” Tony said, bearing his teeth in a parody of a grin.

“Well, let’s start with that stick of Loki’s,” Rogers piped up. “It may be magical, but it works an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon.”

“I don’t know about that, but it is powered by the cube.” Fury said. “And I’d like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys.”

“Monkeys? I do not understand,” said Thor.

“I do!” Rogers said, pointing a finger triumphantly at the ceiling. “I understood that reference.”

Tony could not resist rolling his eyes. He caught Malfoy’s carefully blank face and sighed. Rogers and Thor had company in the Club of Ignorance. The kid was probably too young to have seen any of the classics. He turned to Banner.

“Shall we play, Doctor?” he asked.

“Let’s play some,” Banner agreed and turned to lead the way to the laboratory. Tony inclined his head at Malfoy, who nodded and crossed the room to join them.

“You, Snowy, are sailing too close to the wind,” Tony said as they walked down to the labs.

Malfoy frowned. “I do not think Director Fury considers me a threat.”

“You’re hiding something and he will get it out of you," Tony said, because he considered himself the voice of experience on this topic. "Nick's so on edge, he might burst into tears at any second; so as soon as he’s done with Loki, he’ll come after you. He won’t let this go.”

“No, he doesn’t look the type,” Malfoy said, his lip curling. “Ill-bred paranoiacs like him seldom do.”

“You’re a tantalising mystery to us all,” Tony said, trying to lighten the mood. “If we weren’t in the middle of a pre-existing crisis, you’d have everyone’s undivided attention.”

“Thank goodness for the crisis, then,” Malfoy said, ironically.

“Oh no,” Banner said with a dry laugh. “Goodness has nothing to do with what’s down in that cell.”

“No, indeed,” Malfoy agreed. And there was a whole world of meaning behind that.

“What did you make of Loki, then?” Tony asked Malfoy.

The kid’s silvery eyes clouded over in thought for a long moment. “May I have some time to answer that?”

“Sure—I expect the essay to be on my desk in eight hours,” Tony quipped as they entered the lab.

And then Malfoy surprised them by flinching at the sight of Loki’s sceptre in its cradle on the workbench.

* * *

One look at the sceptre on the table was enough for Draco to convulse and slam up his strongest occlumency shield.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Stark asked.

It took Draco four long seconds and a sharp exhalation to formulate a response. Halfway down his list of priorities lay finding some food and somewhere safe to sleep. Those were also the most innocuous possible answers.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate,” he said. Sleep was out of the question for the time being, but food ought to be achievable.

Stark stomped out of the room, trailing a string of curse words, while Banner led Draco over to a bench that sat against one wall.

“I’ll get you some water,” he said.

Draco closed his eyes and let his other senses wander. That thing on the table was so powerful it was sending spikes of pain along his nerves. He should let himself off the ship and take the Firebolt Supreme to Britain. At least there he might be able to find out just how different this world was from his own.

Then quick footsteps announced Stark’s return.

“Here!”

Something hard was dropped onto his lap. He opened his eyes and looked down to see sandwiches and fruit in a clear box.

“Eat up! Then we’ll scan you for anything unusual that you might have picked up from travelling between England and Belgium,” Stark said.

What did 'scan' mean in this context? Draco eyed the various machines scattered about the room and felt his muscles tense. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t let Stark experiment on you," Banner said. "This is my lab.”

“I thought you wanted to experiment on him too!” Stark exclaimed in mock betrayal. “Seriously? That is no fun.”

While the two muggles bickered, Draco managed to break the food out of its strange container and ate slowly. As hungry as he was, he knew better than to bolt the food. As he ate, he watched Banner wave a metal thing over the sceptre, while Stark tapped a glowing pane of glass, coloured lights on it responded to his touches.

Bizarre contraptions. And why did everything have to glow?

“The gamma readings are definitely consistent with Selvig's reports on the Tesseract. But it's gonna take weeks to process,” Banner said.

“If we bypass their mainframe and direct a re-route to the Homer cluster, we can clock this around six hundred teraflops,” Stark replied.

It was like listening to Gobbledegook before one learned the language. Draco closed his eyes and started to experiment with his occlumency shields against the emanations from the sceptre.

“All I packed was a toothbrush,” Banner said, apropos of nothing in Draco's opinion.

The thing was— _blue_. So very blue. And insidious. It was like smoke through a keyhole, trying to sneak in, taking ground by inches rather than miles. Draco frowned and pushed it out. When Crouch Jr had been disguised as Moody, he had taught them the invaluable skill of learning to throw off the Imperius. Draco employed similar methods to throw off the thing’s influence now. The power was in the stone—the sceptre was just gaudy housing.

That stone was like nothing Draco had seen or experienced before. Vaguely, he could hear Stark and Banner talking, and part of his brain registered it, but he was concentrating on the stone. Its power was limitless, depthless. It frightened him.

“Is everything a joke to you?” demanded a new voice.

Rogers.

“Funny things are.”

Stark. Clearly more interested in antagonising others than working.

“Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny.” Rogers said. “No offence, doctor,” he added in an altered tone to Banner.

Draco sank deeper into his occlumency exercise, shutting them out. The stone was emitting tendrils of power that extended out of the ship and away across the ocean towards, presumably, other individuals.

It affected the mind.

Draco rearranged and fortified his occlumency shields and then opened his eyes in time to see Rogers storming out of the lab.

“That’s the guy my dad never shut up about? Wonder if they should have kept him on ice,” Stark said.

“The guy’s not wrong about Loki. He does have the jump on us,” Banner countered.

“What he’s got is an ACME dynamite kit,” Stark said. “It’s gonna blow up in his face, and I’m gonna be there when it does.”

“And I’ll read all about it,” Banner said.

“Uh-huh. Or you’ll be suiting up like the rest of us.” Stark clearly had a more pessimistic view of the situation.

“Ah, see. I don’t get a suit of armour.” Banner said.

Draco could tell that this was leading into personal territory. He pulled up his legs and crossed them on the bench.

“I’m exposed, like a nerve. It’s a nightmare,” Banner continued.

Draco wondered if the two men even remembered he was in the room.

“You know, I’ve got a cluster of shrapnel, trying every second to crawl its way into my heart,” Stark said, pointing to his chest which was—Draco slid his eyes round to check—yes, glowing.

Draco was fast becoming tired of glowing things.

“This stops it. This little circle of light. It’s part of me now, not just armour. It’s a… terrible privilege.” Stark was advancing upon Banner.

“But you can control it,” Banner said, barely looking away from his pane of glass.

“Because I learned how.”

“It’s different,” Banner said, just as Stark touched the glass pane that he was reading and wiped at it, clearing the images so that they were looking at each other.

“Hey, I’ve read all about your accident. That much gamma exposure should have killed you.”

“So you're saying that the Hulk… the other guy… saved my life? That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”

Draco had no idea what a ‘hulk’ was, but it seemed as if the creature shadowed Banner, like a sinister guardian.

“I guess we'll find out.” Stark said, and they both returned to their work stations.

“You might not like that.” Banner said.

“You just might.” Stark retorted.

That man always had to have the last word. Draco got to his feet and crossed the room to the sceptre.

“Hey, Dangerous Beans—don’t touch that!” Stark exclaimed.

Of course he wasn’t going to touch it, but he was going to get a good look at it. Draco peered at it for a long moment and then straightened. “Dr Banner? May I please borrow your glasses?”

“Uh… okay.” The man handed them over. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replied. But he had a sneaking suspicion.

Using the glasses as a makeshift magnifying glass, Draco carefully examined the sceptre in minute detail.

No runes. No knotwork or beasts. No ornamentation at all.

Which was unheard of for any self-respecting Norse god. So either he was a very poor confidence man, or—

Draco straightened up and returned the glasses. “Thank you, Dr Banner,” he said.

“Find anything, Sherlock Holmes?” Stark said sarcastically. “A bloody fingerprint, perhaps?”

“Nothing of the sort. Nothing at all,” Draco said. His mind was whirring. “I want to talk to Loki.”

There was a long pause before Stark scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s exactly what Fury would forbid. No way. Just sit down, eat your grapes and let the scientists finish—hey! Get back here!”

But Draco was already walking out of the laboratory. “You!” he said, pointing at one of the ubiquitous personnel marching purposefully about. “Which way to the prisoner’s cell?” he demanded.

 _You won’t get respect unless you act like you deserve it._ One of the core tenets of the Malfoy family.

The young woman started and spun round to face him. “S-sir?” she stuttered.

“You heard me, Agent,” Draco said, improvising. “I have orders to go to the prisoner’s cell. Take me there at once.”

“O-okay,” she said.

Draco flashed her the smile that had won many hearts and the woman’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank you,” he purred.

“First time on the ‘Carrier?” she asked after a few corridors had been navigated.

“Yes,” Draco replied. “It’s rather spectacular.”

This was the right thing to say, because the woman blushed again and looked away with a small smile.

“Through that door,” the woman said, pointing to a metal hatch at the end of the corridor.

Draco thanked her again, even going so far as to incline his head at her in a courtly manner. She stammered out a ‘don’t mention it’ and left.

At the same time, the red-headed woman from the earlier symposium burst out of the door and stalked up to him.

“What are you doing down here?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you with Stark?”

Draco mentally cursed her timing. He knew instinctively that he could not charm this one.

“I wanted to ask Loki something,” he said, drawling at her in what he knew was an odiously condescending manner.

“What?” she demanded, openly suspicious.

“I have a feeling this is time sensitive,” Draco said. “So why don’t you escort me to Loki? It should only take a minute.”

“One minute,” the woman said, wheeling around. Draco followed her and they descended to the chamber where Loki was being held. The so-called trickster god was inside a huge glass-sided cell, and when he saw his visitors, he bared his teeth.

“Ah, come back to gloat, Agent Romanova?” he snarled. “I don’t think you have enough time for that.”

“Ask your question,” the woman (presumably called Ms. Romanova) told Draco, who nodded and stepped forward.

“Ah, and who might you be, little lost creature?” Loki asked, his gaze raking over Draco’s body in a contemptuous way.

“I am Draco Malfoy, and I have a question that I would like you to answer truthfully,” Draco said.

Loki laughed. “I make no promises.”

Draco shrugged. “Naturally. The sceptre is not of Asgard, but I do not care how or where you acquired it. What I want to know is how you are resisting its influence.”

“It is from beyond the known realms, and I wield it—it does not wield me.” Loki looked haughty now.

Draco nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said and turned away, walking back to Romanova, who narrowed her eyes at him. She looked even more suspicious now.

“I have a question in return,” Loki called as they walked back to the corridor.

Draco paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh?”

“Why do you have seidhr marks branded onto your skin?”

Draco felt a shard of ice dig into his gut. “A mis-spent youth,” he replied. It was a sort of truth, which was more than Loki’s had been for his question. He turned and walked briskly along the corridor beside Romanova, who glanced at him from beneath her long curling lashes.

“Seidhr marks?” she asked.

Draco shrugged. “I have no idea,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see she was staring at the top of a rune sign that stood out in jagged relief on the side of his neck. He didn’t offer any other explanation. She had no right to know. They rounded the corner to the lab in time to meet Thor.

“Greetings,” he said, nodding to them both. “Is there a problem?”

“There might be, but we can stop it if we stay calm,” Romanova said. 

Thor glanced at Draco and nodded. “Malfoy.”

Draco nodded back. “Thunderer.”

They all went into the lab. Draco kept quiet and hung back, since Fury was one of the room's occupants. 

Dr. Banner rounded on Romanova. “Did you know about this?”

“You wanna think about removing yourself form this environment, doctor?” Romanova asked.

Draco scanned the room. Everyone was upset and angry.

Not good.

He assured himself of his ability as a fighting wizard and tensed his right hand, ready to snap his wand out and put all these volatile muggles on the floor so he could get that sceptre away from them. He watched them all argue back and forth.

Loki was manipulating them, but this sabotage was self-generated. The sceptre was only increasing their emotional responses. The flames were already there, and oil was being sprinkled on them.

Then Fury said something that made Draco's blood run cold in his veins.

“… The world’s filling up with people who can’t be matched, they can’t be controlled.”

All this man cared about was controlling threats. He had a similar level of trust issues as Draco, but he was actually voicing them. Which was a mistake, because it could be exploited.

The arguing grew more heated, but Draco didn’t hear it because of the growing tinny whine in his ears and a sharp pain behind his eyes, both of which told him his occlumency shields were under a terrific strain.

Knowing the source of such pressure, his eyes snapped to the sceptre. The gem was glowing brightly, and none of the others had noticed.

As a card-carrying, self-serving son of a bitch, Draco decided that he did not have to stand witness to this enormous and potentially deadly screw-up. Especially not when that blue crystal was making the situation worse.

Besides, the sun was coming up on a brand new day.

Draco slipped out of the laboratory, unnoticed, as the muggles became louder.


	4. Respect the Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> So sorry for the delay and bad chapter title -- real life is full of boring commitments, and I'm tired. Thus any mistakes/typos are mine. Please point them out and I'll correct them.   
> Now, on with the show! Hope it's okay.

> _I should've suspected trouble when the coffee failed to arrive._ Frank Herbert, 'Dune'. 

* * *

 

Loki stood in the cell not built for him and waited. He had every faith in his plan and he would prevail at any cost.

But there were two unexpected factors. The first was how long it had taken him to feed the red-headed woman the subtext. Finally, she had charged off to prevent disaster, but it wouldn’t work. Barton was already on his way.

The second unexpected feature of this was that pale young man, Draco Malfoy. From the moment Loki saw Malfoy, he could sense the power in the boy. A sharp, bitter seidhr that writhed and danced beneath skin marked with symbols of ancient magic. How could one so young—barely more than a child—have acquired and harnessed such power? Where was he from? Were there more like him? Human seidhr masters were supposed to be long extinct. The idea that some had managed to secretly preserve their practises was delicious. It was a branch of magic that had long since been considered lost to the Nine Realms, and it was sitting somewhere on this craft. Lost and alone, surrounded by particularly ignorant and dangerous examples of this short-lived, volatile species.

There was still a fine line to be walked between deceit and sincerity. There were so many interested parties in the game, and he had to navigate them all. His world had narrowed down to survival.

And he was so exhausted that he felt intoxicated. The brand throbbed in time with his feverish pulse, and he wanted it to be over. He wanted to rest.

But he also wanted to live.

* * *

Draco made his way back up to the command centre and encountered a stern woman who introduced herself as Agent Hill. Draco pleaded exhaustion and assured her that he would sit quietly at the conference table and not make a fuss.

She said a bottle of water would be fetched for him, and told him not to touch anything.

These muggles were awfully fond of this flimsy transparent material to package things in. He vaguely recalled it was named ‘plaz-stick’.

And while he sat there, waiting for the water, Draco prayed for a mild analgesic potion to relieve the ache he felt all the way down to his marrow. He was used to this kind of exhaustion and physical fatigue, but there had been several potions, easily made, that would have masked or alleviated the symptoms.

Draco missed those potions. At times like these, sobriety bit so deeply that its teeth met in the middle and shook him the way a crup might savage a kneazle kitten.

Perhaps there was a reason to be grateful for his stint in Azkaban, after all. Prisoners received little medical care, and it had never included painkillers or sleeping potions. After all, those would alleviate the convict’s suffering and was completely against the idea that prison should be uncomfortable. Moreover, the Dementors had been replaced by human guards, many of whom held wholly justified personal grudges against Death Eaters and their associates.

Draco doubted he would have the opportunity to brew another potion ever again. It was unlikely even the most basic ingredients were available in this muggle world. The thought depressed him. He slouched, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face so that he could observe the muggles around him. Time to muggle-watch to take his mind off things. He could take this moment of relative peace to ponder the situation he was in.

A much better distraction. 

He was little better than a prisoner, at the mercy of these bizarre muggles’ whims and travel itineraries. He had very little idea of what was going on between the various parties, although his instincts were assuring him that there was more than two. At least four, if Draco was asked to put money on it, because it was never simple or straightforward.

Draco had a knack for detecting when things weren’t quite okay. He had long since taken to heart one of the first pieces of advice Snape had ever given him: observe everything, admire nothing.

Case in point, where was that water? 

The muggles’ voices drifted about and Draco eavesdropped, unashamed in his quest for better information.

“Hey, did you hear that speech by Loki?” said one.

The agent’s colleague had not, and the first one pulled up some sort of technological pensieve that replayed the scene. Extraordinary, what muggles had achieved. Draco was reluctantly impressed, and even more deeply unnerved.

“… _Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it's GUSHING red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer… PATHETIC!”_

Draco suppressed his snort. This Loki’s villainous rants were as nothing compared to Voldermort’s impassioned monologues. Draco was not impressed. It had probably been intended to break the Romanov woman’s composure. Draco could have told Loki that it was a waste of time, that woman was tougher than dragon scales. 

_“You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code. Something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!”_

Draco, wholly familiar with serving two parties of liars and killers simultaneously, knew that the code Loki spoke of was utter rubbish. Such self-deception got you killed when you were frequently in the presence of a very powerful legilimens. But that could not be a consideration for these muggles. Draco envied them their mental privacy. 

_“I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear! And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull! This is MY bargain, you mewling quim!”_

That filled in several rather large gaps in Draco’s understanding of the situation. 

So SHIELD agents had turned traitor or were Imperiused into joining Loki’s cause. And they were still very much on the loose (compelled or not, that was fucking disastrous).

Did these people honestly feel secure? Of course normal, civilian muggles would probably think Director Fury was very safe on this strange craft. But he had just brought a magically powerful lunatic intent upon conquering the planet into his command centre. And all the time they sat about arguing, Loki’s minions were still loose in the wind, their wonders to perform, with plenty of traitors and military-grade weapons at their disposal.

They probably even had means of tracking this flying fortress.

And Fury’s masterful tactics in the face of these disasters was to recruit a volatile group of disparate individuals with serious personality defects as his primary response team. Perhaps Draco should be grateful that they all spoke English and seemed to agree that the impending alien invasion was a Bad Thing. And they were all on this flying building, squabbling like teenagers and feeling _safe_ while the enemy ran rings around them.

And that was when Draco’s brain interrupted his internal rant with an important observation.

He could see the shape of Loki’s plan. It suddenly made sense as to why the General would allow himself to be—

_No._

Loki couldn’t be the General of this operation. Generals were never the spear-point of an operation, not unless something had gone terribly wrong. Especially not on an operation as risky as this. Moreover, Stark and Banner did not seem to need Loki to locate the ‘Cube’, the apocalyptically powerful object that could rip apart the fabric of space and time like so much damp parchment.  

Which meant that someone else wanted to invade this planet, not Loki. Or, if he did, it was not out of delusions of godhood, no matter what he said to the muggles. This was someone else’s plan.

Feeling foolish and angry at himself for being so unforgivably slow, Draco sucked in a breath and felt his hands clench. His ragged nails bit into his palms and he felt pure disgust with this entire situation, up to and most certainly including his continued survival. Death would have been far more dignified than being surrounded by so many irredeemably stupid muggles. These people—SHIELD—had allowed Loki to dictate the tempo of their movements and direct their attention in whichever way he chose. Unforgivable. This was hardly the behaviour of an organisation ready for an invasion from any quarter. They had dropped the Quaffle so many times that it beggared belief.

Realising he was furious, Draco shut his eyes and expelled a long, slow breath. He rested his forehead on his crossed forearms and marshalled his occlumency shields to contain his newfound anger. When he felt calm again, he debated telling someone his theories. And also inform them of the likelihood that this craft would be attacked at any second by Loki’s associates.

“Why aren’t you in the lab with Stark?” Special Agent Coulson asked, pulling Draco from his reverie.

Draco felt a sneer tug at his mouth and smoothed it away before sitting up and pushing his hair off his face. “They’re all squabbling and I have a headache,” he said. “It’s—”

But what he’d been about to say was drowned by a sudden enormous explosion from somewhere on the ship. Startled, Draco shot to his feet and his wand was in his hand before his brain could debate the wisdom of such a move. An unforeseen and perilous advantage of being a battle-tempered veteran. 

Alarms were going off and the muggles were running around, yelling panicky gibberish at each other. Draco turned to look at Coulson, whose sharp eyes lingered for a speaking moment on his wand. The muggle raised an eyebrow at him.

“Nice stick,” Coulson said, his voice flat, eyes suspicious.

“Well, I don’t have a gun,” Draco said, feigning defensiveness and embarrassment.  

Coulson laughed. A proper belly laugh that turned his face pink and made his face screw up in delight.

“A s-stick,” Coulson stammered. Then he abruptly stopped laughing and straightened, one hand coming up to touch his ear. “Copy that, sir.” He turned to look at Draco. “Stay here, please Mr Malfoy,” he said. “Preferably under the table.” And then he turned away, heading for one of the staircases that led to the lower decks.

Draco ignored this degrading suggestion and instead chose to follow Coulson.

“You really should go back to the bridge,” Coulson said.

“And die of boredom while everyone else runs around screaming?” Draco said, arching an eyebrow. “I thank you, no.” Besides, from what Draco could glean amidst the muggle jargon and dialectic anomalies, the craft was going to fall out of the sky. He wanted to impart his insight to these doomed muggles before making his stylish escape.

Coulson sighed. “Now is not the time to be a hero, kid. Or a smartass—Stark’s got that covered too.”

The irony cracked Draco’s impassive mask and he grinned. He decided that he liked this muggle. Even if SHIELD was as useless as the Ministry of Magic, here at least stood the nearest to a quintessence of those lofty ideals. A true professional amongst the rank amateurs, politicians and overexcited children. A kindred soul, of sorts

“And if you’re coming with me, then I’d prefer it if you stayed behind me,” Coulson added.

Fine by Draco, muggles made excellent human shields.

“We’ve got a perimeter breach!” said a tinny, disembodied voice in the corridor. Draco flinched and looked around, but Coulson didn’t even break stride as he approached a set of large metal doors. “Hostiles are in SHEILD gear. Call-outs at every junction.”

After a couple of calming breaths, Draco was able to drawl with satisfying insouciance: “Just as I thought.” He said it as if to himself, but really it was for Coulson’s benefit.

“What do you mean?” Coulson asked as he opened the doors using his fingers and face against a small flashing bit of wall. He strode inside and reappeared a few moments later carrying a large gun. “You saw this coming?” The suspicion was evident in his tone and the gun barrel was not quite pointing at the ground.

Draco shrugged. “A little reflection on the situation was all that I needed. I would also suggest that there might be traitors who were already aboard the ship. Moreover, Loki is mostly likely not the general in this unnecessarily theatrical scheme. I suspect that you are not his intended audience but mere stage props.”

Coulson frowned. “You’re saying Loki’s compelled like the others?”

“Perhaps,” Draco conceded. “Or he is playing some double-game, misleading multiple parties. He really is too smart and too dangerous to leave to his own devices. Even in an infiltrated flying fortress like this one.”

His sarcasm was sharp enough to elicit an almost-glare from Coulson.

But before Coulson could shoot him in a fit of pique, the floor tipped beneath them and the muggle agent staggered under the awkward weight of the gun. Draco, keeping his balance, grabbed Coulson’s lapel and hauled him upright.

“Thanks,” Coulson said. “Man, this thing is heavy. Good thing it’s only a prototype.”

And didn’t that just fill Draco’s shrivelled little Slytherin heart with gladness and joy? Experimental weaponry in the hands of someone he had just goaded. Especially when the muggle fixed Draco with an intent look. “We’ll be having words later, kid, but for now I’d like you at my six.”

Draco understood this to mean ‘back-up’ and followed Coulson down to Loki’s holding cell. Then they heard a dull boom from up ahead. They tip-toed forward, Coulson took the first entrance to the cell and Draco went to the next one, intending to surround the enemy that no doubt waited inside.

A scene was unfolding. Somehow Thor and Loki had switched places, with the supposed thunder god inside the cell, and the supposed trickster god grinning on the gangplank with a heavily armed lackey standing nearby.

Wordlessly, Draco cast disillusionment and silencing charms on himself before moving to the steps, ready to drop Loki at the first opportunity. But even as he approached his target, he felt the sceptre’s presence again—somewhere nearby. Draco froze and looked around—because the sceptre should still be in Dr Banner’s laboratory. How on earth had it been brought down here, past all the agents? Suspicion flared. The visible lackey was also the _only_ lackey in the space. That showed either supreme confidence and ability, or else…

Or else there _were_ traitors aboard the craft. They had been here all along. Draco contempt for Fury’s organisation deepened.

Draco really wanted off this fucking building in the clouds that was barely floating anymore. Thoroughly fed up, he decided to stun Loki and his lackey when Coulson made his move, knocking the minion out and levelling his gun at Loki.

“Move away, please,” Coulson said, calm and polite.

Loki raised his hands and stepped onto the walkway. He looked cautious.

Draco didn’t buy it for a second.

“You like this?” Coulson asked, hefting the gun and stalling for time, no doubt. “We started on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does. Do you wanna find out?”

So that was why he was prevaricating. Coulson did not know if he might blow a new hole in the ship while trying to stop Loki from escaping. Draco rolled his eyes. Only a wizard with his spectacularly poor luck could be in such a ridiculous situation. He cast a searching spell for the sceptre and realised a second too late just what the set up was.

Another trap.

Draco, in full possession of the element of surprise, flicked his wand at the exact moment that the real Loki materialised behind Coulson and stabbed him in the back with the sceptre’s blade.

Thor roared in outrage from the cell as Coulson slumped to the ground with a wet sigh. Draco’s non-verbal _expelliarmus_ threw Loki back against the far wall, the sceptre falling from his grasp with a clatter. Draco hit him with a strong stunner before he had the chance to get up or form even half a spell.

Then Draco turned to Coulson, removing the disillusionment charm as he knelt before the muggle.

“Please, don’t shoot me,” he drawled.

Coulson wheezed. “I have a new and profound respect for that stick.”

Draco, accustomed to providing emergency medical aid in the field, cast a diagnostic charm. There was massive internal trauma and bleeding into the chest cavity. The lung had been punctured and three ribs were broken. The blade had damaged Coulson’s heart; not obliterating it, but the muggle would die if he did not see a Healer very soon. Draco’s knowledge could only do so much.

“Listen, kid, you did good. I have no idea how, but you did…” Coulson broke off, swallowed and continued, a little breathless. “I hope you get home okay.”

Draco had heard stupid, self-romanticising spiels before from gravely injured comrades who were convinced they weren’t long for this world. “Shut up,” he said. He decided that he could obliviate Coulson later, but for now it was more important to save him.

Why was he, Draco Malfoy, former pureblood supremacist and universally acknowledged selfish git, even considering saving a muggle? Because underneath that, Draco was the wizard who had betrayed his family, their cause and wholly rejected the ideology he had been taught to revere from his gilded cradle. He respected muggles because he feared what they could do. 

Besides, this muggle in particular had, in a very tacit way, helped him. And Malfoys always paid their debts.

He knew he was making excuses. 

Draco took a chance, ran the calculations through his head twice to be sure, then reached into Coulson’s body with his magic and vanished a measure of the blood that was threatening to put pressure on the muggle’s heart and collapse his left lung. Immediately, Coulson’s breathing eased. 

“What—?”

But Draco was not destined to hear whatever Coulson was going to ask, because Thor yelled from the cell.

“Look out—!”

Draco threw up a wandless shield charm just as a wave of magic washed over them. The shield wavered and Draco quickly ran through his options. But by the time the light had faded, Loki was standing over them, pointing the sceptre at Draco’s head, and not giving him any time to formulate a plan.

“Not bad, little seidhrmadhr,” Loki drawled. “But it won’t be enough.” He tapped the bloodstained blade of the sceptre against Draco’s invisible shield charm and it held. Barely.

“I could say the same of you,” Draco replied dryly. He straightened up, refortifying both his occlumency walls and his shield charm as he did so. He bought himself time to do this by looking Loki up and down, once. He twitched an eyebrow to convey his conclusion of this assessment.  

Loki silently seethed.

It always helped to have one’s opponent put off-balance. Especially when they had more raw power than you. A good front could be a tremendous help.

Coulson suddenly spoke up. “You’re gonna lose.”

“Am I?” Loki asked, staring past Draco to glare down at the grievously wounded muggle.

“It’s in your nature,” Coulson said. Something flickered in Loki’s expression. A subtle tic that Draco fixed on. Loki was definitely more than a straightforward maniac.

Because when had Draco ever been lucky enough to encounter one of those?

Half-wishing that he was back in the Department of Mysteries, he turned slightly so that he could keep Loki in view, but also get a glimpse of Coulson. In doing so, he realised that Thor and the cell were missing entirely from the space, and there was a gaping hole in the floor. There was no time to ponder that, however, because Loki spoke up again.

“Your heroes are scattered, your floating fortress falls from the sky… where is my disadvantage?”

Draco wanted to list them. But knew from long experience that gloating was best done while the opponent’s corpse was cooling at one’s feet. Apparently Loki had not learned that lesson, because he let Coulson draw him into a debate. Draco watched the muggle, looking for the trick.

“You lack conviction.” Coulson said, and Draco saw his hands tense slightly on the gun. He silently dispelled the shield charm and prepared to spring into action.

Loki was still talking. “I don’t think I—”

And that was when Coulson shot Loki with the prototype gun that still lay in his lap. It blasted Loki through the opposite wall in a roar of flame that left Draco feeling a little singed and very much relieved he’d seen it coming.

“So that’s what it does,” Coulson wheezed.

“I’d say that was a successful weapons test, wouldn’t you, Agent Coulson?” Draco knelt before the muggle again and held up his wand.

“Thor…” Coulson wheezed.

“If he truly is Thor, the mighty god of thunder,” Draco said. “Then I’m sure he survived the fall. Unlike you, who can’t even seem to withstand a sucking chest wound. For shame.”

The biting sarcasm thinly veiled behind a tone of mild disinterest seemed to lift Coulson’s flagging spirits, the corner of his mouth twitched up. “How did you do all that? Are you a mutant?”

Draco felt deeply insulted by the term ‘mutant’, even though he had no idea of what it meant in this world or precise context. But the notion that he was a freak of nature was a grave affront to his impeccable lineage.

“No, it was the stick,” Draco drawled, holding up his wand.

“Props to the stick,” Coulson said, nodding his head slightly. “Listen, take my earpiece—tell Director Fury… tell anyone… tell them that Loki’s rabbited.”

Whatever the fuck that meant. Draco was unwillingly being schooled in American muggle slang and vulgarities.

“Take my phone too… just in case.” Coulson said. His hands clumsily extracted both devices and he instructed Draco in how to attach the earpiece. Draco grimaced and shook his head. It felt unnatural and extremely uncomfortable to put anything in his ear. But the ‘phone’—a small, thin metal and glass device that fucking _glowed_ —was a little easier.

Coulson pressed at the glowing side of it a few times, demonstrating how to use it. Draco did not understand any of what he was seeing, but kept quiet. It was bad form to upset dying people, irrespective of whether they were muggle or magical.

“Coulson?” Director Fury’s voice—tinny but distinctive—emerged from the device. “Coulson! Report!”

Coulson wheezed and shot Draco a pointed look.

“Director Fury?” Draco said, cautiously.

“Malfoy?! Where the fuck is Coulson? Where are _you?_ ”

“We are in Loki’s detention cell. He has been liberated by his associates, and Thor has been thrown off the, er, craft,” Draco said, relaxing a little when Coulson nodded encouragingly. “Special Agent Coulson has been very gravely injured. I request that medical assistance and armed support be sent down to our location immediately.”

Fury swore fluently for a few seconds, then ended the communication. Or at least, that was what Coulson said had happened.

Then, once again, they were interrupted by Loki. Draco heard him flailing about somewhere beyond the smoking hole in the wall. He sounded like he was in pain.

“Damn,” Draco said, summarising the situation. “I can’t move you,” he added to Coulson. “And I’m not leaving—” he broke off, because the muggle lackey which Coulson had knocked out was also stirring. Draco rose, pocketed the device and walked over to the man, wholly prepared to divest him of weapons before kicking this cretin in the head. But even as he had removed the last of the guns and straightened up to apply the boot, there were two terribly loud bangs and Draco felt hot fists slam into his side. Strength left him and he staggered sideways, clutching at a convenient handrail as his legs buckled. He gasped and the pain blossomed, spreading across his chest. This was bad.

This was so fucking bad.

Distantly, he heard shouting and looked across at Coulson, who was staring at him in open-mouthed shock. Confused, Draco looked at his side and pressed his hand to the two small holes in his jacket. Pain flared, but it wasn’t as bad as he had initially thought. Still a respectable seven out of ten, but now that the initial shock had worn off, he could think again. He lifted his head to look at Loki, who was staggering out of the hole in the wall and snarling at the lackeys who had attacked Draco.

“You have no idea what you have done!” he snarled. “I should strike you down where you stand. Get him up. If he dies before I can see to him, then you will all suffer my displeasure.”

Draco struggled feebly as two of the black-clad muggles grabbed him and pulled up between them. Something tore wetly in his side like ripping fabric and his vision swam, went grey and the tinnitus obliterated his hearing. He gasped once, head wobbling on his neck, and then he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is shamelessly begged for.   
> Also, kudos for whoever spots the references to 'Generation Kill'.   
> Cheers!   
> ~ L.


	5. Stabbing and Defenestration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Loki resorts to violence (twice) when he doesn't get his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I am so very sorry for the enormous delay.  
> Basically, I'm moving house next month and the subsequent madness has been, and will continue to be indescribable. Add to that the crisis of deciding which version to post (the answer is: the better one), and the delay became severe.  
> Any mistakes are my own; if you spot them, I'll fix them.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

 

> _“Arguing is the Olympics of talking.”_ ― Stewart Stafford

* * *

 

Tony managed to get out of the suit with Rogers’ help, although that did involve some sharp words and painfully simplistic instructions to keep the old blond from breaking delicate components.

Then they got the news that Coulson was ‘down’. Also, Thor and Banner were missing. And Loki had escaped with Malfoy, who had been _shot_ by Loki’s henchmen. 

And what did Tony do? He and Rogers sat at the conference table while Fury spoke some trite sentimental bullshit about Coulson believing in heroes, emotionally blackmailing them into—what? Heroism? Tony was very confident of his heroic credentials thank you very much, and could readily admit that Rogers’ reputation was deserved. But Coulson was dead. What the fuck? That guy was indestructible. Like Pepper, he’d come through the Stane debacle with not a hair out of place. Coulson was supposed to go to Portland to see his cellist and fail to laugh at every single joke Tony fired at him. And that led him to the second point. Where and _why_ had Loki taken Malfoy? Apparently Coulson’s dying words had included the intel’ that the humourless kid had last been seen bleeding profusely as he was dragged off by Loki’s goons to a stolen quinjet.

Neither Coulson nor Malfoy could have known that Loki had already been sprung as they ran down to his cell.

Tony went down to the holding cell to stare at the space where the Hulk Box had been and at the two blood stains. One on the wall, and one on the walkway. With a sickening lurch, Tony considered the possibility that Malfoy was also dead. The kid reminded him of a street mongrel; thin, wary and constantly alert. Something about Malfoy had piqued his interest, and it had less to do with the fact he was suspiciously amnesiac and hopelessly lost, and more to do with the fact that the kid reminded him of himself.

Which was too strange for words.

Then his mind went back to Coulson. He had been too good a man to die at Loki’s hands. For all Tony’s teasing, he had actually liked the guy. And Pepper was going to be devastated. He didn’t want to break that news to her.

One productive result from the clusterfuck was that, in talking to Rogers, he realised what Loki’s play was. Where the invasion was going to happen. So while Rogers buffed his shield and Romanova hugged Barton back to sanity, Tony patched his suit back together and cursed the fact that the cameras had been scrambled by Barton before Loki had been freed.

“Fucking bastard,” he breathed as he soldered a loose connection in his helmet at the workbench. He didn’t know if he was cussing out Loki, Barton or both of them.

“ _Stark,_ ” Rogers said in his earpiece. “ _Ready?”_

“Are you?” he shot back and put the suit on. Then he clomped down to the hangar and set off for his tower.

* * *

Occlumency, once mastered, had unexpected side-effects. Dreams were irrevocably altered. Either the dream was as easily manipulated as clay, or so vivid and out of control it might as well have been the real world except for the fact that one knows it is a dream and escape is impossible.

So Draco was rather annoyed. Surely one of the perks of unconsciousness was supposed to be a total _lack_ of awareness?

Apparently not.

_Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck._

Pain and terror ripped through him as he tried to pull himself up and out of the sucking mud that clung to his legs and robes. He knew he was hurt, but he didn’t want to look.

Where are they?

Whose footsteps were those, squelching towards him?

He was cold, all the way down to the bone. He could only see bursts of light through the fog—he was on a battlefield. This was hardly a shock, he had been in several engagements while the Golden Trio had been on their camping trip from Hell.

Why was he so terrified?

Why couldn’t he get out of this mud?

The footsteps were getting closer.

Shit— _shit!_

He strained to hear anything, but it was terrifyingly silent. Who was here? Where was ‘here’?

Draco snarled and hauled against the ground’s lethal grip.

_“No matter what happens, we must see it done.”_

Severus Snape’s words had pushed him through worse situations. Giving up simply was not an option.

Even when a bolt of light hit his already-injured side and knocked him into the mud, he screamed out of frustration rather than pain. At least, he thought he screamed. There was no sound at all. He felt his lungs squeeze tight and his throat burn with the effort, but there was no result.

The wet patter of feet was almost deafening now. Draco looked around for his assailant, scrabbling at the liquid mud in earnest. He had to get up.

And where the fuck was his wand?

His side was burning now, a sinister tempo of throbbing pain at odds with his staccato heartbeat. Experience told him that it was bad. He really didn’t want to look. His arms were leaden with fatigue and he was probably going into shock. Merlin only knew what he’d been hit with…

And then, quite abruptly, Draco was awake. Awake on a cold, hard floor, his shoulders aching and his side was a throbbing, burning mass of pain. The dream hadn’t lied on that score, then.

After another moment, he realised that his hands were bound behind his back and something was muddling his senses. A magic that that was bitter and sour and sickeningly sweet in the back of his mouth. It swirled through him, brushing against his own magic and leaving traces behind. Not deliberate spells, but a residue, an echo of something that felt _wrong._ It hurt. It was like two very different spells had been forcibly woven together. Their conflict was corrosive and surely undermined the power’s integrity. Any spells cast would be either very weak or explosively unpredictable.

Draco really wished it would fuck off out of his system. He had enough problems with curse scars and the Dark Mark, thank you very much. He wanted to scream at the thought of yet another corrupt foreign magic taking root in his system.

Where was his wand? Where?

Every instinct screamed at him to find it, to use it. Add to that the years of combat experience, and he was fully alert and keen to take action. He tensed his muscles and sucked in a breath, ready to—

“Keep still,” said a stranger—no, it was _Loki_.

Draco opened his eyes and saw that the maniac was kneeling in front of him, his hands pressing upon the wounds in Draco’s side. Loki’s smile was different from before, and he looked tired.

A fresh wave of the awful magic washed over Draco and he yowled in protest (and pain), arching away as his wounds tore afresh. Blood tickled down his back and he heard Loki hiss in annoyance.

“Stop!” Draco gasped, trying to wriggle away, but Loki was infinitely stronger and adjusted his hold on Draco, digging his thumb into the hollow of Draco’s hip, pinning him with an inhumanly strong grip. There would be bruises by the morrow, if he lived that long.

“I am trying to heal you,” Loki said, in the manner of an elder scolding a naughty child. Which was fucking patronising, considering the circumstances. “I said, _keep still_ ,” Loki repeated. “This is complicated. Your power is resisting mine.”

“Small wonder,” Draco spat. Now that he’d got a direct taste of Loki’s foul magic, he could see his theory was right. It was all forming a picture he did not like the look of. “Bloody hell, I said stop! You—I— _aaargh!_ ” He didn’t mean to yell, but he had made the mistake of trying to talk. “Y-you’re making it worse,” he managed through gritted teeth after a few seconds of pained gasps. Draco would rather take the honest, if deeply perplexing, wounds than this magical abuse. He was beginning to feeling nauseous now. He knew he was healing physically, he could feel it, but it was a cruel process and he began to dry heave as his body fought against the corruption. Of course, he was used to varying types of discomfort, but this was a newly realised violation and he trembled with the shock of it, outraged and terrified. What if this was permanent? What if he could never expunge this magic from his body?

By the time Loki had finished, Draco could barely see through a film of tears that had unwillingly spilled from beneath his eyelashes. He had also bitten through the inside of his cheek and bile was tinged with the all too familiar tang of blood. He shuddered and spat, coming back to himself by painful inches. He also managed to take stock of the fact that he seemed to be back aboard the smaller flying craft that had taken him to the bigger flying craft.

“That is all I can do,” Loki said, sitting back on his heels and resting a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “The internal damage has been rectified, and I have removed the—ah, ‘bullets’, but you still need a human medic, so I shall resort to more mundane solutions for now.”

Draco snarled wordlessly and pulled his knees up to his chest. He felt fucking awful and swore, calling down the vilest aspersions upon Loki’s parentage and his probable sexual perversions. He concluded by demolishing any pretentions Loki might harbour towards intelligence or a likeable personality. Gobbledegook really was the only language worth swearing in. No wonder the goblins had such an insuperable pride.

He received a puzzled frown from Loki.

“Most intriguing—is that a dwarfish dialect?” the bastard asked, having retrieved a red box and pulling a roll of bandages from it. 

Draco was tempted to move onto English epithets for Loki’s many and varied inadequacies, but decided that what little strength he had left would be put to better use not disgracing himself. Loki lifted him easily onto the bench (as one might a small child) before pushing Draco’s shirt up to reveal the wounds, which still bled sluggishly into his waistband.

Loki frowned as he prodded at the wounds, which made Draco suck in a breath and try to shy away. But Loki’s grip on his shoulder was inhumanly strong, and he was unable to do more than twitch.

Loki didn’t look up from the wounds, but gripped Draco’s hips and pulled him forward so that he sat on the very edge of the bench then pushed his shirts higher. Draco swallowed the sudden bitter lump in his throat and turned his gaze to the far wall. A new set of thoughts swirled in his brain, suggesting a violation far more demeaning than magical torture. 

But instead, all Loki did was wrap bandages tightly about Draco’s waist before pulling his shirts down again.

“There. You should do for now.”

When he could speak without revealing his pain, Draco asked, “If you hold my species in such dislike, why are you taking care of me?”

Loki laughed—it was a tired, hoarse noise. “I do not dislike _your_ kind at all,” he said. “And I feel some degree of pity for your species, though, certainly.”

Draco could relate to this sentiment, but refrained from expressing it. He felt sorry for the muggles too.

“You did not deserve to be involved in our affairs in the first place, much less dragged into an inter-realm war. But there is no going back and I—” Loki broke off and looked away. “But that does not concern you.”

Of course it did. Draco’s life was swiftly devolving into a travesty as he lurched from one life-threatening situation to the next. But instead of acknowledging the observation, he decided to push for some answers. “This situation is far bigger and more complicated than SHIELD supposes,” he said. “But how do you think I factor into your lofty goals?”

Loki stared at him, and Draco fought to keep still under the scrutiny. How had Loki not already gone insane? His magic was so twisted and tainted that it should have started to warp his mind.

Perhaps that was already the case. It would certainly explain a few things.

“I think it is time to speak honestly with each other,” Loki declared with a heavy sigh, moving to sit down on the bench beside Draco.

Which meant that they would be lying outrageously. Draco was an expert at the intricate game of dissembling. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Let me start by saying that I never intended to cause you harm, seidhrmadhr. That was done by one of my subordinates, whom I have punished.”

It wasn’t the first time Draco had been attacked by muggles, although it was certainly the most successful. He waited for Loki to say something pertinent to the situation.  

“I brought you with me to save your life, and to that end, I believe I have succeeded,” Loki continued, an arrogant smirk hovering on the edge of his mouth.

Draco did not want Loki’s confidences to come to an end. He would have to give a little ground. “Perhaps, although I think it more pertinent to discover precisely what you want from me.”

“You are quite the prize,” Loki said promptly. “The side who has your support will storm to victory.”

“I serve no one,” Draco replied. _Not anymore_.

Loki frowned. “I could _make_ you.” He made no move to look at or touch the sceptre that lay on the bench beside him. There was no need.

Draco remained silent, but pointedly turned his head to the far wall.

He heard a heavy sigh. And then there was a whisper of leather and cloth as Loki got to his feet and paced about the craft for a while, hands behind his back and his head bowed.

Draco braced himself for an attack, knowing that he did not have much strength left for anything, much less withstanding what a being of Loki’s strength and speed could mete out. Then Loki turned back to Draco, his green eyes alight with something unsettling.

“You know something,” Loki said.

Draco assured himself of his occlumency shields’ integrity before venturing to speak. “I know lots of things.”

“I’m sure you do,” Loki said. “A couple of things interest me. Are you the only seidhrmadhr in the realm?”

“I have no idea.” It was no less than the truth.

“You are alone?”

“Completely,” Draco said frankly.

“And what do you think you know about this situation?” Loki asked.

Draco knew he was on dangerous ground. Especially since he still did not know where his wand was— _fuck!—_ and there was no one inclined to help him. What to say that would guarantee his survival?

“I _know_ very little,” Draco said. “What I can deduce is not encouraging.” He took a deep breath, commended his soul to whatever higher power might be taking an interest, and forged ahead. “You have made several grave errors in strategy and your magic is corrupted. This suggests that you are acting on behalf of someone who is coercing you. While you may be truly loyal and wish to accomplish their goals, it seems more likely that you are attempting to manipulate the situation to your own advantage under the constraints laid upon you. In other words,” he concluded, eyeing Loki’s rigid countenance with private misgiving. “You are bluffing.”

For a second, Loki’s face twisted through a gauntlet of emotions, all of them complex and none of them good.

Draco braced himself for violence.

“You presume much,” Loki murmured, his eyes glittering with rage, which failed to hide his fear. “Did you share these fantasies?”

“No.”

Because Agent Coulson was probably dead. And if he wasn’t, then it did SHIELD no harm to have its one competent employee informed of what was actually going on.

“You don’t trust your rescuers,” Loki said. Not a question.

“I don’t trust anyone,” Draco said. The longer he could keep the conversation going, the less time Loki would have to consider using that sceptre on him. Plus, he was in no mood to work for anyone, much less another unstable powerhouse of tainted magic.

Loki sucked in a breath—about to speak—when a strange noise filled the cabin. A chiming drone that made Draco twitch in surprise. Something was buzzing against his hip, like a billwig trapped in his pocket.

The supposed trickster god appeared as surprised as Draco felt. Seconds later, his pocket was inspected and the glowing device that belonged to Coulson was revealed. It was the source of the noise.

Loki held it gingerly by one corner between two fingers and waved it in Draco’s face. “So, you thought to betray me?” he demanded. “What is this?”

Draco felt a stab of alarm under his ribs and bit the already ragged inside of his cheek.

“I said,” Loki hissed, slamming his free palm against the wall beside Draco’s head. “What is this?”

There was no helping it. “A communication device, loaned to me.”

Loki looked outraged. “How do you make it stop this noise?”

“I do not know.”

Loki’s smack was probably supposed to be light and admonishing. It snapped Draco’s head round and left his cheek burning. “All you humans have these things,” Loki hissed. “You—are— _lying.”_ He threw the phone away and it cracked apart against the far wall in a shower of sparks. The whining drone abruptly ceased.

Draco worked his jaw and ran his tongue along his teeth. None were loose, thank Merlin. He turned back to sigh at Loki’s display of temper. Two could play at ‘patronising’.

“Well,” he said, forcing his tone into light insouciance. “We’ll never know, now, will we?”

Loki’s patience was clearly at an end. He snarled wordlessly and snatched up the sceptre.

Realising his misstep, Draco mentally apostrophised himself as Loki turned back to him, that unsettling light in his eyes, reflected from the glowing stone.

_Hurray for me, and my incredibly stupid decisions._

Draco tried to get up, but in leaning forward made his wounds throb. He sucked in a deep breath and fell back, swallowing hard. No. He had to get up. He tried again, and though his knees shook and he could feel sweat break out on his face, he managed it.

Loki watched this with pitiless interest. Any signs of humanity had disappeared. If they had been there at all. Then he advanced.

Draco staggered backwards. “Don’t touch me!” he spat.

“Perhaps you’ll be more respectful and compliant if—” Loki began, holding the sceptre out before him. Draco did not want to be stabbed, blasted or enslaved, so in spite of his shackles, he instinctively flicked his wrist, trying to release his wand from its holster—

And nothing happened. Of course not.  

Loki smirked and produced Draco’s wand from his coat with his free hand. “Looking for this?” He twirled it in his fingers like it was just any old stick of wood.

Draco seethed and was about to deliver a scathing retort when Loki lunged— _struck_ —and he fell hard, pinned by the shoulder to the floor. The blade didn’t go all the way through only because Draco could feel it scraping against the inside of his shoulder blade as Loki leaned on the sceptre and grinned down at him. Draco allowed himself a brief scream, as much from rage as pain. 

“Obey me,” Loki hissed and the stone flared brightly, illuminating Malfoy’s skin—lines of power carving themselves into his bones. “ _Obey!_ ”

Draco could not resist this force, not when it was in contact with his flesh and blood. Blue washed over him and through him and turned his mind inside out. The power was like the Imperius curse, but far greater. Because Draco was not trapped in his mind, he _was_ this new creature. Forcibly remoulded by the blue stone and the will of its bearer.

Except…

Draco’s occlumency shields were still in place. There was the compulsion, the blue urge that had been made a part of him. But his true mind was also there, underlying the blue. It was a bizarre sensation and Draco thrashed on the floor as he fought the blue self that wanted to subsume his occlumency shields.

He jerked convulsively as the blade was pulled free with a wet sucking sound. Then Loki crouched above him and healed the stab wound in his shoulder, although it burned like his side.

“Join me, when you are able. I want to show you something,” Loki said, tossing Draco’s wand onto the floor and turning away to talk to the one operating the craft.  

Draco bit his tongue hard and closed his eyes, fighting the blue with everything he had.

He was left alone and uninterrupted in this battle for his soul. As he fought, pain juddered through him, scorching his bones and setting his muscles to uncontrollable spasms. He chewed his tongue to a bloody pulp as he fought back a scream, and still it bubbled through. As the blue overwhelmed his defences, he retreated further and further into his mind, setting up a labyrinth of inconsequential memories and superficial desires. The blue greedily ate through them like a flame on parchment. Draco offered more and more, a breadcrumb trail to delay the power. He couldn’t stop it, but perhaps if he slowed it down, someone could take that sceptre away from Loki and free Draco.

Then, he would demonstrate at great length exactly how he had earned a place in Lord Voldermort’s inner circle.

Draco wondered if it was possible to kill a god. Loki probably _wasn’t_ a god, but the idea was still tantalising.

Then the blue ate up that train of thought and Draco prayed someone would tie him up before he did something stupid of his own blue will.

* * *

Tony landed on his tower and stared at Loki as he walked into his penthouse. Inwardly, he was seething at the audacity of Loki’s plan and the abuse of his beloved property.

Loki met him inside, wearing a smug grin. “Please tell me you’re going to appeal to my humanity,” he said.

“Uh, actually, I’m planning to threaten you,” Tony said, his eyes scanning the space. Was Malfoy here? What had Loki done with him?

And why did he feel so responsible?

“You should have left your armour on for that,” Loki said, still sounding amused.

“Yeah, it’s seen a bit of mileage,” Tony said, aiming for casual rather than murderously angry. Since the ‘mileage’ in question was _all Loki’s fault_. “You’ve got the glow stick of destiny. Would you like a drink?”

“Stalling me won’t change anything,” Loki said.

“No-no-no. Threatening. No drink? You sure? I’m having one.” He did indeed make himself one. He needed it. “Where’s the kid, by the way? What have you done with Malfoy?”

“He is learning the error of his ways,” Loki said. “And the Chitauri _are_ coming, nothing will change that. What have I to fear?”

“The Avengers.” Tony managed not to grimace at the stupid name.

Loki looked nonplussed. God help him, Tony would have to _explain._

“It’s what we call ourselves, sort of like a team. ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ type of thing,” Tony said feeling disgusted at the idea. Some heroes.

“Yes, I’ve met them.” Loki’s mocking smile reflected Tony’s own feelings on the idea.

Tony grinned back. “Yeah, it takes us a while to get any traction, I’ll give you that one.” He proceeded to enumerate the team, noticing how Loki’s face darkened and he let out a hiss of anger when he mentioned Thor. “You’ve managed to piss off every single one of them,” Tony concluded.

“That was the plan,” Loki said, smirking.

“Not a great plan. When they come, and they will, they’ll come for you.” Tony put on the Mark VII bracelets from under the bar shelf. Thank goodness he’d left them there before heading off to Stuttgart.

Amazing and nauseating to think that it had been just over twenty-four hours ago.

“I have an army,” Loki said.

“We have a Hulk,” Tony retorted.

“I thought the beast had wandered off,” Loki said, by way of reminding him of the catastrophe on the helicarrier.

Tony let his mouth run as he advanced on Loki. “… Because if we can't protect the Earth, you can be damned well sure we'll avenge it.”

Loki closed the final space between them and raised the sceptre. “How will your friends have time for me, when they’re so busy fighting you?” he asked and tapped the blade against Tony’s arc reactor. It ‘tinged’ and nothing happened.

Confused, Loki tried again, and again nothing happened.

“It should work.” Loki said, frowning.

“Well, performance issues, you know? One in five…” Tony began, but Loki grabbed him by the throat and threw him across the room.

“JARVIS,” he gasped, trying to get up. “Any time now.”

Loki grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet, inhumanly strong. Tony scrabbled at the guy’s wrist, trying to relieve pressure from his jaw where Loki’s fingers dug in painfully.

“You will all fall before me!”

Then he hurled Tony out of the window.

Glass shards scraped his face and hands and Tony let out a brief yell as he fell through the air.

After several awful seconds, the Mark VII caught up with him and just twenty feet from the pavement he was able to arrest his free-fall. He probably scorched some innocent civilians as he turned himself around and sped back up to where Loki was standing in front of the ruined window.

“And there’s one other person you pissed off,” Tony said. “His name was Phil.” Then, without waiting to exchange anymore empty banter, he blasted Loki with his gauntlet repulsors, sending him skidding away along the floor.

Then he heard a strange boom from the roof and a blueish light opened up a portal a mile in the sky.

Things started to pour through the hole and Tony realised that he’d have to take them on, because no one else was around to do so.

And Malfoy would have to wait.

Tony hoped he was safe.

“Right. Army.” He said to himself as his helmet display switched to tactical assault mode. He flew up and tried to engage them, but it was useless. Iron Man couldn’t create the necessary bottleneck.

Shit.

Tony chased after some of the flying scooter things and knew he would fight until he died or won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Draco be in any shape to join the fight?  
> Will the next chapter be posted more quickly?  
> ... Will the author ever shut up and get on with writing said chapter? 
> 
> ~ L.


	6. Beating the Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for the delay -- Life, you know? Plus the flu over New Year's that I've finally managed to shake off. 
> 
> Also in mourning for the mighty and wonderful Ursula K. Le Guin who departed this realm the day before yesterday. An inspiration. A great and beautiful light that showed us the way.   
> I urge you all to go and read her work. If it doesn't move you, then I'm not sure what would do the trick. 
> 
> “I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.”   
> ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore.

> _“What is an anarchist? One who, choosing, accepts the responsibility of choice.”_ ― Ursula K. Le Guin

* * *

 

Draco came back to a world of pain so profound that he let out a brief scream before he could stop himself.

In recent times, he had been screaming entirely too much. It was an insult to his dignity.

Something was burning, exploding inside. He could hardly see straight. After a few minutes of agonised panting, he groaned and rolled onto the side that hurt less, not quite ready to open his eyes. He tasted blood and his head throbbed abominably. In attacking him with that damned sceptre, Loki had violently altered Draco’s perspective and priorities.

He now had the powerful urge to join Loki. But even as he sat up, he growled and smacked his palm against the tiles. His occlumency shields were riddled with the blue power, but had not been destroyed. It was as if the blue power was a living thing and did not know whether to shore up Draco’s mental defences or obliterate them. It sparked and flared, sending spikes of pain through his head and down his neck.

Draco breathed hard through his nose and spat blood onto the floor. His tongue and the insides of his cheeks felt like so much raw meat in his head. He must have bitten them many times. And his whole body ached, but his two most recent wounds were demanding the most attention. Loki might have healed him, but the spells had failed and he was bleeding again. Draco could feel an all-too-familiar sickening stretch and sting. He knew it was bad.

And he knew he’d had worse.

He also knew he had to get up and join Loki.

But…

_“Join me, when you are able…”_

Was he able? The fact that he could even question the order was reason to start calculating. Dispassionately, Draco looked himself over. He was a mess, inside and out. This strange magic was not agreeing with him. It did not feel _right_. In this state he couldn’t overpower a damp tissue, much less spring up off the fucking floor with a glad cry and help with an invasion.

Somewhere, some cruel power was enjoying the entertainment Draco was providing them.

The blue cracked across his vision and sizzled along his nerves, sending him reeling back and landing on his elbows. The subsequent pain did not distract him from a new, uncomfortable sense of urgency. A ringing sensation pealed in his ears and he had a tremendous headache.

As Euripides succinctly put it: _‘Nothing has more strength than dire necessity’_. So by painful, gasping inches, Draco retrieved his wand and sat up. Now it was time to make himself ‘able’ _._ What a fucking joke. He dug the velvet pouch from his jacket pocket and consulted the medical textbook provided in his ‘care package’. Damned undignified, but his experience of first aid had never included gunshot wounds before. Moreover, the book proved useless on the barbarous practise and consequences of firearms, so he had to settle for an all-purpose field dressing spell. He sucked in the deepest breath he could bear and pointed his wand at the wounds in his side. It put a stasis on the trauma sites so that they would not bleed or tear further. Better than nothing, and it would last a few hours.

That accomplished, Draco was able to turn his attention to his other hurts. His tongue was difficult to heal, but he managed to stop the bleeding and reduced the swelling. The stab wound in his shoulder needed more than the field dressing that he patched on, but without essence of dittany, it would have to wait. He did not intend to waste any more time on himself.

He returned the book to the pouch and pushed himself to his feet. It took an embarrassingly long time. The spells that held him together did nothing about the pain. He felt as if he’d just gone up against a pack of bloodthirsty beaters on the Quidditch field without any fellow Slytherins drawing the bludgers away from him. After being hit by _sectumsempra_ again. And although the sensations were somewhat familiar, he did not have the luxury of adrenaline fuzzing the issue. 

He looked around and saw he was in a ridiculously over-styled space, with dark stone tiles, glass and steel. There was little furniture and an island bar stood along one wall. The rest of what he saw made very little sense, so he ignored it as he limped over to the bar and found a cut glass decanter of whiskey. He sniffed the stopper and decided it wasn’t wholly unacceptable. So he poured himself a generous amount and knocked it back. It stung the wounds in his mouth and lit a fire in his painfully empty stomach, but that was just fine. Plus, the thought of never playing Quidditch again was enough to merit a measure of liquid solace.

Although he was very much not in the mood, he probably was ‘able’ enough, now, despite the blue fissures in his brain. It debilitated his vision and confused his senses. He sighed and let his head tip back. The blue power pushed hard against his temples, which felt like molten glass being manipulated by iron tongs—shaping and distorting under intense heat. It _hurt_.

After he finished a second helping of whiskey, he poured some water into the tumbler from the sink and grimaced at its odd taste. So muggles were contaminating their own water supply. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong side and Loki was right after all.

Suddenly, and quite unprompted, Draco thought of his father’s disapproving countenance.

It helped.

A bit.

Then, as his mind cleared and focused on this train of thought, another idea struck him with the blinding force of a concussive hex to the face. The blue receded and clarity flared for an instant.

“Fuck.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose—one of the few appendages that had been spared the brutal indignities the rest of his body had suffered. Of course. That was it. It was time to get it over with.

Then the windows that made up one wall of this strange room exploded inwards. Draco flinched and threw up an arm to protect his face as glass shards showered around him.

What the—?!

Draco looked around quickly—colours sliding crazily across the shape of the room—just in time to see a flying metal thing swoop away, down into the city.

“What the buggery…?” he whispered through shut teeth as he stalked over to the twisted metal window frames. There were more of those flying things zooming about the sky, raining what looked to be beams of destructive light upon the city. The blue in his mind twisted his feelings about this chaos, but also told him that this was the army Loki had promised to bring through the portal.

The portal!

Draco had to see it. Had to understand. Maybe there was a way to manipulate it. Maybe he could go home.

The thought of the expressions on the Unspeakables’ faces if he strode back through the Veil, was reason enough to try. On the strength of that all-too-tempting mental image, Draco retrieved the dagger from his velvet pouch and attached the sheath to his belt. When he let the borrowed muggle jacket fall back in place, he was satisfied that it would not easily be seen. It always paid to have some goblin steel in reserve. One of the few truly decent pieces of advice he had received from Aunt Bellatrix.

He also pulled out the Firebolt Supreme, then returned the velvet pouch to its pocket. More of the flying things passed by the window, and Draco could hear the sound of explosions in the sky and the city.

Since the aliens were invading, who was going to mind or even notice a wizard entering the fray?

He limped over to the remains of the window, slung a leg over the broom and kicked off.

He stayed close to the building, as unobtrusive as possible, and just when he could make out the lip of the uppermost rooftop—

“Seidhrmaster!”

Loki.

Of course.

The blue power hauled Draco’s reluctant, abused muscles into obeisance, and he found himself flying over to where Loki stood on the balcony. The supposed trickster god’s appearance was now far more warlike. Not only did he sport an oversized horned helm, but there was also a swirling green cloak and bright armour. The sceptre was now spear-length.

Not good.

Draco remained airborne and far beyond stabbing distance.

“Well?” Loki said, gesturing around them.

“‘Well’ what?” Draco shot back testily. He had to obey, but he was still conscious of the compulsion and was deeply resentful of being in another’s power.

That startled Loki. “You—you _are_ in my power.”

It almost sounded like a question.

Draco scowled. If he weren’t under the blue power’s control, Loki wouldn’t still be breathing. There was a long moment of tension, during which the tremendously loud noises of battle shrieked and boomed in the air. Draco waited, his left hand on the neck of the Firebolt Supreme, his right hand resting on his thigh. Ready to draw his wand at a moment’s notice.

Loki frowned. “Come closer.”

Draco drifted forwards by a foot.

The answering smile was so heavily shaded with relief that Draco’s suspicions were confirmed. He tipped his head to one side, his hair blowing about his face in the wind, as he considered what to do. He was on a knife edge.

Then, an idea occurred to him. It would be risky, and he’d have to be very, very quick for it to work.

Draco flew around Loki and landed on the main part of the balcony. He carried the Firebolt Supreme in his left hand and strolled forward, affecting insouciance. He had to wait for the perfect time to strike.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Loki breathed.

Draco stared up at Loki and couldn’t decide what was going on in those blue-green eyes. So he turned his gaze to the blue-white light that was carving a dark hole in the sky. Reluctantly, Draco gave the sight its due credit. The portal was amazing.

“I’m glad you’re here, with me,” Loki said. “I think, together, we can survive this.”

Draco thought it more likely that they’d both die in agonising pain in the next few hours, but remained silent. He resented having his side in this conflict decided for him. He tensed, prepared to strike—

—and Thor dropped out of the sky.

_“Loki!”_

So much for that plan.

They both turned to look at him.

“Turn off the Tesseract, or I’ll destroy it!”

From what Draco had been privileged to witness of the cube’s power—re. the hole in the fabric of reality above their heads—Thor would be likely to kill himself (and collapse this building) in the attempt.

“You can’t!” Loki snarled, pointing the sceptre at him. “There is no stopping it. There is only the war!”

“So be it,” Thor said.

As Loki launched himself at Thor with a scream, Draco felt that he probably wouldn’t win, but perhaps that was the point. Draco remounted the Firebolt Supreme and rose to the rooftop, where the Tesseract was. He alighted on pale gravel and shrank the broom, tucking it into his jacket pocket. Then he advanced upon the device that was creating the portal. It was, predictably, more _glowing_ muggle technology. Draco did not understand what he was looking at, much less how to manipulate it.

Still, it reeked of power, and Draco was drawn to it—a moth to the flame. The blue inside him tingled, like knew like.

“Hey! No! Get away from it!”

Draco spun sharply and his fractured blue vision swam and spun crazily, the oversaturated colours whirling and pulsing. His wand was in his hand.

A middle-aged muggle was staggering towards him, blood running down the side of his face.

Draco couldn’t see any weapons, but that did not reassure him. He pointed his wand squarely at the muggle’s face.

“Stay where you are,” he gritted out.

The man frowned, and raised his empty hands, palms out. He frowned at Draco, taking in his whole appearance. “Are you with Loki?” he asked after a moment.

At least he wasn’t coming any closer.

Draco swallowed back the mad urge to laugh and felt his lips tighten into a thin line. “Explain this device,” he said, pointing at it with his free hand.

“It is—wait, why should I tell you anything?” the man demanded, suspicious again. “And how the hell did you get up here?”

Draco felt his jaw clench and narrowed his eyes at the muggle. Why should _he_ have to explain himself to this peon? Perhaps if their positions were reversed, he’d feel compelled to say something, but he had his wand and did not feel like indulging this muggle’s curiosity. “Tell me,” he said again, letting his voice grow softer. “What is happening.”

It was not a question anymore. It was a command. The muggle seemed to realise Draco’s thinning patience, because he answered promptly. “The aliens are coming through the portal.” Then he seemed to realise what he was saying. “Oh God, they’re invading!”

“Yes, thank you,” Draco said, his voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. “I had already noticed that. How is the stone powering this portal?”

“I…” the man paused, frowned. “I don’t actually know how the Tesseract produces its power.”

Draco rolled his eyes, colours slid and shimmered. Of course. That would be far too easy. 

“But it can be manipulated,” Draco insisted. “How?”

“I—I programmed the machine using my laptop…” the man looked about and groaned theatrically. He turned away from Draco and picked up two pieces of metal. They looked like they might fit together, although Draco wasn’t sure of that. “… Which is now broken,” the man concluded, holding out the pieces for Draco’s inspection.

“And there is no other way to alter the portal?”

“Not without something of equal or greater power penetrating that energy shield,” the man said, gesturing at the faintly glowing orb that surrounded the machine. “Also a new laptop, about sixteen metres of insulated cable and a satellite link.”

Not good enough. Draco cast a diagnostic spell at the machine, and was unsurprised when it sent back a bewildering array of data. Readings of various elements and energies that he barely recognised in such combinations.

“What did you just do?” the muggle asked. Draco heard the crunch of gravel and knew that the man was moving closer.

“Stay back,” Draco said. “Just—sit in a corner and be quiet. Or I’ll make you.”

Contrary to his instructions, the muggle seemed more concerned with Draco’s actions than with his own safety.

“Is that some new SHIELD tech’? An intra-spectral particle scanner or Gamma ray meter?” He reached for Draco’s wand arm, and Draco reacted on instinct. Without a word and only a half-formed thought, he cast a full body bind on the muggle and watched with a sense of deep satisfaction as the man keeled over backwards.

It would be too petty to say ‘I warned you’, so Draco merely allowed himself a cold look before retrieving the books from his velvet pouch. He fixed them in the air before him, and flicked through the pages, trying to find anything that might give him answers.

After several long minutes, he concluded that his own world had been woefully ignorant of portals in general, and interdimensional ones in particular. He thought back to the Vanishing Cabinet, and what spells he had cast to repair it. They would not be suitable in this instance. As he flicked through the books on magical theory, it occurred to him that he could not be acting against Loki’s will, or else the blue power would have punished him for his actions. It still hurt every fibre of his body, but since he was accustomed to mental violations and magical torture, it did not weigh with him too heavily.

But nothing presented itself, and he was running out of time. He knew he was reaching his limit. His sight was breaking apart, and something that wasn’t him was consuming his body and mind, bit by bit. It was time to act. So he released the muggle from the body bind and watched him scramble to his feet. “Why did you build this thing, if you do not work for Loki?”

The man looked embarrassed. “I—I was compelled—like you are now. You don’t have to—”

“Of course I ‘have to’, you moron!” Draco snarled. “I just have the dubious advantage of _knowing_ so. How did you break the power’s hold?”

The man frowned. “I think I hit my head.”

Was it really that simple? Draco frowned. Perhaps so. It was worth a try, anyway. He sighed, sat down on the gravel (because why add to the indignity by falling over as well?) and tested his Occlumency shields. They held the blue power in check. At least for the moment.

He could not believe he was doing this. There would be serious debts to be paid.

He spat blood into the palm of his hand and whispered words of power as he clenched his fists in anticipation. This was going to hurt. In fact, it might kill him.

The ancient blood magic rose like a wave, ferociously ripping through his body. Something was burning, exploding inside. He could barely see. His blood felt like it was on fire and he shook so violently that the back of his head smacked against the ground and the world went dark.

When Draco awoke, it was to magic, ancient and powerful, swirling around him. It sang through every fibre of his being and filled him up to the brim. He gasped in a lungful of sweet, freedom-laced air. He felt untouchable.

Then a middle-aged man’s face loomed over him, and rather ruined the moment. “Did, er, whatever you did just now—did it, uh, you know, _work?_ ” he asked.

“It can’t have worked,” Draco told the muggle, pointing up at the sky. “Not entirely. Unless you can also see those things.”

The man glanced over his shoulder at the sky. “Oh yeah, kid. I can see them.” He turned back to grin down at Draco. “I’m Eric Selvig, by the way.” He held out a hand. “And I’d say it did work—your eyes aren’t blue anymore.”

Draco shook the hand and then sat up. “Well then.” He healed his concussion and closed the wound on his scalp. “Time to go to work.” He stood up and looked around them. The city was burning, and the creatures flew back and forth, attacking indiscriminately.

Draco was unimpressed. They may have the numbers and the firepower, but that would not save them from what Draco had in mind. Shacklebolt may not have packed any books on dark magic, but really, there had been no need. What Draco did not know about the Dark Arts could be inscribed on one side of a knut. He may not like it, but it was a fact nonetheless. He was a fully accredited Dark wizard, and under such extraordinary circumstances as these, he could damn well start acting like one. He was well beyond the scenarios laid out in any book on the muggle world. Besides, he had a sudden profound desire to destroy something.

And he would deal with any potential magical law enforcement afterwards.

“They could still be alive,” he mused to himself. Perhaps he ought to go look. He cast strong disillusionment charms on himself and his broom, then pointed his wand at Selvig. “ _Obliviate_.” It was a simple matter and better to erase all traces of himself.

He heard the screams of hundreds of aliens, and guessed that some sort of stand was being taken.

Summoning up his meagre reserves of strength, he remounted his broom and dove into the streets.


	7. ... And The Gloves Came Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!  
> Sorry for the delay -- the real world can be a really time-consuming place. 
> 
> WARNING: Hardcore gore enacted in the name of the dark arts. Very nasty. But then again, I really doubt that hugs, compliments and free foot rubs are essential criteria in manufacturing curses. (And Draco Malfoy would rather die than offer any of those things.) 
> 
> I have also chosen to ignore the Chitauri’s canonical ‘neural link’. Because I’m afraid that was way too convenient for my liking when I first saw the film, and now it smacks of a lazy, ‘what’s-the-quickest-most-convenient-way-to-tie-this-up?’ bullshit creative decision. Yeah, I’m a grumpy cynic. Plus, how else am I going to get Malfoy to flirt with his bad old ways?

 

> _There is some soul of goodness in things evil,_  
>  _Would men observingly distil it out._  
>  ~ King Henry.
> 
> Henry V. Act IV, scene 1

* * *

 

It was chaos. The local fauna were stampeding in all directions, screaming their heads off. The air was thick with smoke and dust, and the aliens’ weapons’ blasts. They looked a little like spell-fire, the blue-white beams of light zapping vehicles and buildings alike. Despite being unseen, Draco was not immune to the effects of this onslaught. He flew quickly through the streets, dodging the strange firearms and falling debris.

There was a sudden and wholly unexpected flash of lightning. Deafening cracks of thunder overhead made him duck and wheel around. A building he vaguely recognised from his own world was shadowed by purple-black storm clouds, and alight with writhing bolts of lightning that shot _upwards_ at the portal and the enormous creatures that were descending into the city. Draco was impressed by its effectiveness, but did not see it as a solution to the conflict. No, he was sure he could do better than that.

He alighted on the corner of a building to scope out the situation below, and took the time to cut a strip of cloth from the hem of the ruined shirt and tie back his too-long hair. He had seen too many Quidditch matches forfeited due to a player’s lack of practicality. And in battle, it was almost invariably fatal. He also poured protection charms into his clothes. Hardly up to the standards of dragonhide armour, but it might help. He needed every edge he could make for himself. He also cast a shield charm over his face. Draco had better things to do with his time than dig bugs from his teeth.

As he did this, the battle roared around him. Attacks, explosions, carnage, screaming, damage to property. All very familiar, even if the details were off. Even up on his vantage point, it smelled wrong. His ignorance and vulnerability only served to fuel his rage. He hated this world and everybody in it. Part of him really didn’t care if he died, but this time he wanted it to be wholly on his terms. No more empty ‘choices’ from the smug, ignorant victors. No more imprisonment, no more torture.

No more failure.

He glanced down at the slight shimmery haze where his right hand was, and pressed his left thumb to the tiny ‘S.S.’ tattoo. A touchstone.

_“We must see it done.”_

He swallowed hard and let out a long, shaky breath. He pulled the rage and hurt back under his Occlumency shields. They would do him no good now. He needed a clear head for the experiment he had in mind. He looked about him and fixed on a target. It would be hard to miss.

_“Avada Kedavra.”_

The jet of green light seemed miniscule in comparison to the huge creature it struck, but it worked. The thing went limp and dropped out of the sky, crashing into the street. A shrill roar from thousands of throats filled the air.

“Hm.” Clearly willingness to kill overcame any size issues. Therefore, battling these invaders ought to be a ridiculously easy objective, given the results of that experiment. He’d deal with the MACUSA later, if they even existed on this miserable plane of existence. But where was the organised counter-attack from local muggle forces?

A mid-air explosion three streets away jerked him from his musings and he remounted the Firebolt Supreme. Bits of a flying craft were falling to the street below. So, there was a counter-attack of some kind. He decided to investigate.

He flew fast and high, dodging the flying crafts, before dropping down for a closer look. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight, he was sure of it, but he had to make sure. It was a male muggle on the rooftop fighting with a _bow._ The kind with _arrows_. In the age of fully-automatic firearms and rockets.

This spectacle considerably undermined Draco’s estimation of the man’s sanity. Especially since he also seemed to be talking to himself.

Hell of a fine shot though.

The air appeared to belong solely to the enemy, putting any possible counter-attacks at a serious disadvantage. He knew where he would be most use. Barely visible behind his strong disillusionment charms, he flew after the torrents of small flying crafts and strafed them with curses. He did not have the energy to perform countless Killing Curses, but no such resources were necessary for the various and inventive curses he deemed appropriate for the situation. Sheer curiosity brought him close to his third batch of victims. Seeing the creatures up close, Draco thought they were like some repulsive cross between a stunted troll and an iguana. They had no magic, nor did they reek of enchantment.

He cast a sweeping _reducto_ that took out most of the crafts he was trailing. The explosions were almost simultaneous.

A few years ago, his success would have made him cocky. Now, he was just pathetically grateful for a break. And for a supposed sorcerer, Loki was being suspiciously reticent about any feats of magic. Perhaps it had something to do with the blue stone, or the portal.

The portal…

There had to be a way to manipulate it so he could get back to his own world. The alternative was too horrifying to properly contemplate. Even if he couldn’t pull it off, the latter was still the only correct decision to make, regardless of the price. Which probably meant getting Stark and Banner on the task. They had seemed to know what they were talking about back on the flying craft. But considering the nature of Loki’s escape, they might have been killed. 

The possibility of going home would have to wait until he had secured the area. Especially since the ancient spell that had saved him from the stone’s control demanded blood for blood.

He kept moving back and forth above the city, chasing down and destroying the flying crafts. But more kept coming, and whatever had generated the magical lightning had stopped working. If he were at full strength and had a squad of qualified witches and wizards under his command, he would have warded the perimeter of the battlefield to prevent any spill-over and contain the enemy forces. As it was, he would probably kill himself in the attempt.

Draco certainly didn’t miss Azkaban, or the Order, or the Death Eaters, or Hogwarts. But he did miss the fighting. The adrenaline coursing through his body as spellfire tore through the air, flashes of green like a deadly aurora borealis. It was the closest he came to feeling alive, while on the knife edge, unconscious of his mortality until it was over. The complete opposite of spying on behalf of the Order. Lying to all except one who died without giving away Draco’s cover, but still giving the Chosen One all the other fucking information he needed. Perhaps Snape had thought that Potter and his band of merry morons would not win immediately, and would still need a double agent. Little did he know that the final duel had been mere hours away and Draco would be arrested along with everyone else bearing the Dark Mark.

And it was impossible to explain what a wizarding war was really like. It never changed, for one thing. Draco had been fighting one way or another for so long, and almost always alone, that it had become the only comfort he had left. Not a nice comfort, but through sheer familiarity it had become reliable.

He paused in the shadow of a skyscraper to check his field dressings and saw a brightly coloured blur down on the street below, a man in blue and red was fighting the creatures. With what seemed to be a brightly painted shield. Draco recognised Captain Rogers’ ludicrous outfit—such sartorial errors were hard to forget. He swooped down and started throwing stunners and Dark hexes. _Sectumsempra_ proved particularly satisfying.

Rogers looked about him, confused and defensive. But Draco had no intention of revealing his presence. Instead, he caught and immobilised an individual alien, before removing it to a deserted alley. He settled against the opposite wall, grimacing as his wounds throbbed. Adrenaline and excitement would only do so much to dull the pain. He knew that there was no way a tiny group of madmen using anachronistic weapons was going to contain—much less repel—the invading force. And since he was not strong enough to create a warded perimeter, that left him with few options.

One of them would certainly have got him arrested in his own world.

He didn’t much fancy it, but it seemed the only fast-acting method of stemming the tide.

He removed the alien’s faceplate with an _accio,_ pointed his wand at the creature and stared into its beady golden eyes.

“ _Legilimens,”_ he whispered.

_—Darkness. So pure and vast it could only be death, or outer space—_

_—Bite—slash—shoot—scream—rip—tear—dark—dripping—pain—_

_—The summons—the journey—a great assembly—hundreds of thousands—the army—the pale stranger—a huge ship—_

_—A vast vessel—home—his brothers—_

_—The pale thin war chief—his magic—his rage—his terror—oh, so delicious—_

_—The Great One—the waiting—the hunger—_

_—The speck of light—strange light—down, down—_

_—So bright—shoot—fly—attack—fight—fight—_

Draco pulled out of the alien’s mind and stunned it so that he could think in relative safety. So…the things were connected to each other, including the giant creatures. And yet they died as individuals. It reminded him all too powerfully of the Dark Mark. Who was the Voldermort-type in this particular scenario? Most likely, the mysterious and presumably terrifying ‘Great One’, who was in charge. It couldn’t be Loki, since he was clearly identified as a war chief. Rather a come down from supposed godhood.

He remembered Snape musing on the nature of the Dark Mark, and how it worked. The sudden rush of emotion was painful in its intensity, rising unbidden at the memory of his friend and mentor’s low, smooth voice. He leaned back against the wall resisted the urge to sit down. If he did, then he wasn’t sure he would get up again. But that had far more to do with the wounds than any attack of sentiment.

He wove diagnostic spells upon the creature, trying to discover the true nature of the power that connected them. For they seemed to have free will… Draco frowned and dismissed that idea. So much that had gone wrong for these muggles was due to simplistic assumptions.

The readings came back and Draco took a long moment to study the data. The aliens were not being controlled by the blue stone. But they were all interconnected through some kind of technology. He dissected the information down into its vital parts, and saw the trick. Some kind of force linked the aliens’ brains matter. A highly complex broadcast-and-receptor system that seemed to be built upon technology fused with biological tissue.

Now that Draco was no longer trapped by the blue power, he might find a way to reverse-engineer these lines of connection and manipulate them. The most expedient method was to be found in the Dark Arts. And considering that time was of the essence, he felt he had little choice in the matter. Victory was often bought at a high price. Even so, he probably ought to feel bad for what he was about to do, but from what he had glimpsed of these creatures’ culture, it was unlikely that he was laying a terrible curse upon a utopian society.

Using his knife, he cut deeply into one of the creature’s arms and using the blood, drew a circle of power around himself and the alien. He then repeated the process with a circle of his own blood, sitting just outside the first circle. Merlin knew, he had little enough to spare. Then he put a full body-bind on the alien, and began to cast the spell. It had been developed by an ancient Egyptian sorcerer and ought to work on anything with a heart, but it was still a risk. For example, if this species had more than one heart…

Draco began to recite the spell, which was not easy to pronounce. But if he stressed even one syllable incorrectly, it was liable to backfire and kill him.

“ _… his flesh shall belong to the fire, his children shall belong to the fire, his corpse shall not be to the ground.”_ Draco recited in the language of the pharaohs. Then, he put his wand back in his arm holster. He would need both hands for the activation. 

Slowly and with great care and deliberation,, he cut open the alien’s chest. He peeled back the skin, revealing a very non-human musculature and bone structure. The sternum was much broader and thicker, for one. The metal implants were disgusting and bewildering. Draco grimaced, his hands already awash with dark green ichor, as he carefully sliced lower down the thorax, seeking the bottom of the ribcage. The inexplicable bits of metal seemed to be random, and his blade kept on encountering pieces under the greyish skin and embedded in the muscles at odd intervals. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and cut through the connective tissue that held two plates of metal together. It was like an inner carapace. He peeled the metal and muscles apart, grimacing as another gout of blood washed over his hands.

After slicing neatly through what had to be the diaphragm, he inserted his left hand up, under the ribcage, pushing aside a deflating lung and grasping the heart. It was shuddering erratically with stress, but Draco was not in the mood for sympathy. He grasped it, then inserted his right hand into the chest cavity, and used the dagger to cut the heart free.

Moving quickly now, he pulled it out and set it carefully on the alien’s sternum.

 _“I shall be against him as a crocodile on the water, as a serpent on the earth, and as an enemy in the necropolis.”_ Then he drew his wand, and set fire to the heart. The white flames quickly reduced it to ash, and Draco felt the curse rip out of the circle. It travelled through the shared blood, through the lines of connection. Out and out—it sought all others in the city, and destroyed their hearts in their chests. They would be dead before they even hit the ground.

After a long, awful moment, Draco stood on stiff legs, cleaned and put away the dagger. Then he incinerated the alien’s remains as well as the blood circles—destroying and then vanishing all evidence of what he had done. Only amateurs did otherwise. This accomplished, Draco retrieved his broom and limped to the mouth of the alley. He stared up at the skyscraper which housed the portal-making machine—

—And his heart sank. He resisted the urge to scream.

 _No_.

The portal was gone; along with any immediate chance he might have of going home.

* * *

CLINT: 

It was a surprise when all the aliens dropped dead simultaneously. At first, he thought it was a fluke, but then he saw one of the giant flying fuckers flop over and die. On a rooftop, no less. Clint did not want to be part of the clean-up crew who had to deal with that logistical nightmare.

He ran through the streets, collecting arrows where he spotted them and looking for the others. He heard the Hulk’s roar from two street’s over. It was a risk approaching Banner’s alter-ego, but Clint decided to take it. He rounded the corner in time to see Thor helping Stark to sit up. Rogers noticed his approach and raised his free hand in greeting.

“You okay?” Rogers asked, ever the officer.

Clint huffed. “Yes, mother, now can I go play on the swings with the other kids?” he said, earning a snort of amusement from Stark and Thor, and a confused rumble from the Hulk. Rogers, a military man first and foremost, grinned and rolled his eyes.

“Only after we’ve arrested Loki, secured the Tesseract and you’ve had your afternoon nap.” 

Actually, that last one sounded great. After the longest shower feasible. He took point on the trudge to Stark Tower, where Hulk had indicated that the ‘puny god’ had last been seen. There was a good chance that with the portal closed and the army somehow all dead, Loki would steal the Tesseract and flee the city. Or maybe even the planet.

Clint wanted to sink an arrow into the bastard’s face before that happened.

It was an awkward, silent trip to the top of the tower. Thor and the Hulk made their own way to the penthouse suite, but Stark, Rogers and Clint were on foot. The elevator doors slid open to the sight of Natasha, in full Black Widow mode, standing by the door to the balcony. She was holding Loki’s sceptre and was speaking to Selvig, whose eyes were hazel once more. Loki, meanwhile, was lying unconscious in a crater in Stark’s ridiculously overpriced marble floor. The billionaire made a predictable fuss about the destruction of his tower, but Clint guessed it was a cover for his shock. Hulk’s attack on Loki would have turned a regular human to so much red paste and bone splinters.

Clint stood over Loki and his fingers itched to shoot the bastard. But Thor and Rogers were bound to disapprove, and Clint wanted to save his arrows for any surprise attacks. There might be aliens still alive and roaming about the city.

The others were talking, but Clint didn’t really pay attention. All he was focused on was Loki’s prone, battered form. Several small cuts bled sluggishly, and his chest rose and fell in small gasps. Hopefully, the Hulk had broken several ribs. Thor did not seem perturbed by Loki’s hurts, rather surprising considering that they were brothers, albeit by adoption.

Then Stark clomped over and sighed heavily. “I hope this bastard wakes up soon. I want to know what he did with Malfoy.”

Clint had been briefed on this topic during the journey to Manhattan. What Loki could want with a scrawny, amnesiac teenager was a mystery. But Rogers and Stark both seemed terribly worried, and Clint wasn’t about to leave any innocent civilian at Loki’s mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The curse Draco recites is taken from a longer, authentic ancient Egyptian curse. Those guys knew how to put the chills into would-be tomb-robbers.
> 
> All feedback is adored.  
> ~L.


	8. Stupid Impulse and the Consequences Thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco Malfoy does something stupid, and regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!  
> Sorry for the delay, life has been busy. Huge thank yous are also due for the marvellous feedback and all the kudos. You've made this nerd very happy.  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter; there's swearing, etc. as usual. Un-beta'ed, so any mistakes, typos, etc. are my own. Please point them out, and I'll go correct them.  
> Thanks!  
> ~ L.

 

> _"Action is eloquence."_  Volumnia **,** _Coriolanus._  Act III, scene 2. William Shakespeare. 
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

Exhausted from the blood spell and the highly risky, complex curse upon the aliens, Draco felt ready for a lie-down. He deserved it. But he also wasn’t safe on the streets of a wrecked city. So with a heavy sigh, he refreshed his disillusionment charms and remounted the Firebolt Supreme. He marvelled at how well it handled as he flew up the side of the Tower. If he stole that cube-shaped power-source from the portal device, he could use it as a bargaining tool to get back to his own world. From the look of their tactics and assorted skills, it would be laughably easy to overpower them by force if necessary. He didn’t trust anyone, and that cube would not be left unguarded for long before Fury, or some other authority-type, swooped in and claimed it for themselves.

Draco hovered above the rooftop gravel and stared at the machine in dismay. The cube was gone, and the muggle scientist was talking to the red-headed woman from Fury’s flying eyesore on the upper balcony. She was holding Loki’s sceptre and Draco wanted nothing more than to take it into protective custody. He decided to bide his time for the moment, since there would be no reasonable explanation for it going missing. So he put a tracking charm on it and descended to the lower balcony. Perhaps there was still some of that tolerable scotch lying around.

But he was pulled up by an extraordinary sight. Stark, in his strange armour, Thor, the giant green troll-creature, and the crazy archer. The archer was standing over a crater in the floor, and at the centre of the depression was Loki—flat on his back, bloodied and slowly regaining consciousness. He gasped, groaned and sat up, much to the interest of the rest of the room’s occupants, who crowded round to watch.

Despite their posing, Loki’s obvious agony was a heart-warming sight, and one that Draco would have enshrined in his memory forever if he didn’t, in that instant, feel something was wrong with the scene in front of him. Something prickled at the back of his mind, like a painful itch. It was—

—“If it’s all the same to you,” Loki gasped. “I’ll have that drink, now.”—

—a fucking trap.

Draco acted on instinct.

“ _Everte statum!_ ”

The muggles were knocked clean off their feet, hurled away from Loki. The landing would not be soft, but they might survive this. Draco flew into the room, landed between Loki and the muggles, and threw up a shield charm. It held, giving Draco enough time to shrink his broom and tuck it into his pocket. Then he set out to subdue Loki. Unfortunately, experience taught him that in a real fight it was fatal to mess around with the jelly-legs jinx and stinging hexes. So he aimed serious slicing and burning spells at Loki.

But Loki’s magic worked in a different way and it was difficult to anticipate. Draco held out his shield with his free left hand and left his right arm free to counter-attack the strange flashes of magic that Loki was directing at him. A lucky burning curse caught Loki’s shoulder, and purple flames began to spread. It’s hard to concentrate whilst on fire, and Loki screamed, batting at the flames ineffectually. But tendrils of yellow light were advancing, independent of Loki’s instruction. Draco danced backwards on his toes, but it was no use. The spell surrounded him, pushed against the shield charm and then stabbed through it. It brushed past the protection charms on his clothes and damaged his disillusionment charms. As he flickered in and out of visibility, the ancient blood spell swirled up in his defence as pain rocketed through his system. His tattoos danced and writhed on his skin. He threw another curse at Loki. But Loki’s spell made it curve away and dissipate harmlessly against the ground.

Because that’s just how the day was going.

Very well. No more fucking around. He carefully lowered the occlumency shields on his rage. 

“ _Crucio_.” It was whispered, because he didn’t have the breath left to shout and, really, there was no need for theatrics.

Unlike the previous curse, the Unforgivable hit its mark. Loki screamed and fell back, convulsing. However, it had the unforeseen effect of releasing Loki’s control over the spell he had woven. The curse burrowed into Draco like acid eating through parchment. It was met by the blood spell, and the two magical forces hit each other like lava falling into the sea.

The pain was incredible. Almost Unforgiveable.

Draco could barely see. He staggered sideways, barely keeping his feet. In his panic, he tried counter-curses, but they only dulled it enough for lucid thought to fully return. He shook and choked cries forced themselves past his bloodied, clenched teeth. Nevertheless, he forced his eyes to stay open and kept a firm grip on his wand. He had endured the cruciatus enough times to work through lesser pain. And he would sooner die than yield one inch to Loki or anyone else.

The self-styled god, still twitching from the effects of the Cruciatus, was staring up at Draco, his expression openly shocked. What did he see?

Draco didn’t have time to wonder at it, for even as he fought with all his considerable will against the unknown curse, he felt one of—no, _both,_ fiend seize it—the field dressings fail. Blood began to dribble steadily from the wounds. The ancient blood spell, now feeding on Draco’s blood, roared to full power, feasting as much upon him as on Loki’s curse. A parasitic guardian. He felt the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck prickle and the power bent his spine back— _back_ —until he was staring up at the ceiling. He was lifted up onto the tips of his toes, stretching his body, the joints in his arms and legs locking so that he feared they might break.

Draco forced his wand to point at the cage of strange magic surrounding his own body.  

“ _F-fi—”_ he stuttered, through clenched teeth. He couldn’t get the words out. “ _Finite—”_

It was a wretched, utterly pathetic attempt. Little better than a child’s supplication to a deaf god. As if a basic charm could possibly have any effect on this curse of Loki’s. Nevertheless, he hung on, determined to do some greater damage before he bled out.  

Although for the life of him he could not imagine why he had _deliberately_ put himself in harm’s way. Why he had bought these hopeless muggles time?

What an incredibly pointless and painful second death.

* * *

TONY STARK: 

Tony was standing over Loki with the other Avengers (and oh, dear God, someone stick a fork in him, he was just about done with the clichés), when an invisible force hurled them away from the Antlered Asshole. He landed painfully hard against the far wall, and Rogers landed on his legs. The suit kept him from being crushed by the patriotic slab of muscle, but he was pinned and forced to watch as a slim, dark figure materialised inside a net of yellow light. They made a tiny noise of pain and hissed something, probably obscene, under their breath.

Then Loki fell back and screamed, although he didn’t appear to have been shot or stabbed. How was that possible? At the same time, the figure in the middle of the yellow light staggered, and  Tony recognised it as Draco Malfoy, whose body was contorting under the yellow light’s force.

What the fuck was going on?

Apparently everyone else was thinking similar thoughts, because they were scrambling to their feet and moving closer to Malfoy and Loki. Reindeer Games had stopped screaming and was now propped up on his elbows, staring at Malfoy, who seemed to be in a very small but intense world of agony. Blood was dribbling to the floor around his feet. That galvanised Tony to storm past a gaping Rogers and a swearing Barton, determined to help the kid.

But it was Thor who, for once, had a better idea than most of what was happening. He beat them all to Loki and wrenched him onto his feet with his free hand.

“ _Loki!”_ he bellowed straight into his adopted brother’s face. “Dispel the magic at once!”

Loki blinked, noticed the hammer being brandished in close proximity to his skull, and waved his hands in a strange twisting motion. The yellow light around Malfoy disappeared, and the terrible unseen force that was bending the kid almost in half released its hold on him. Then, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, he collapsed in a heap.

Tony surged forward, trusting Thor to keep Loki under control, or kill him if he twitched.

“Someone—help him!” he yelled, trying to strip off the suit’s gauntlets as quickly as possible and not daring to take his eyes off the kid. Malfoy looked like he was having some kind of seizure. He was shaking uncontrollably, eyes rolled back into his head and teeth bared in a bloodied snarl.

“He’s seizing,” Barton said, laying aside his bow and kneeling opposite Tony. He put a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder and the kid flinched violently, his breath hitching in a broken gasp. The floor beneath them gave a terrible shrieking sound, as if a giant razor was being scraped over it. Then the marble tiles cracked into a million spiderweb patterns.

“Jesus Christ,” Barton said, scrambling back. “What the fuck is happening?”

Malfoy continued to suffer those terrible, wracking spasms—breath hissing through his teeth. Blood smeared on the tiles around him, and he was gripping a straight, polished wooden stick in his right hand. Why, Tony had no idea.

Then, quite suddenly, the kid’s shaking stopped. Malfoy’s face relaxed and he lay still for a few tense seconds, breathing harshly. Tony reached out, bare-handed now he’d dealt with the gauntlets, and touched Malfoy’s uninjured shoulder.

Just as Tony’s fingers brushed the edge of the jacket, Malfoy’s eyes snapped open and he sat up so abruptly that Tony pulled back.

“Whoah! Take it easy!” Rogers said, stepping into the breach. “Lie down—you’re hurt.”

The look he received was full of contempt and derision.

“I am aware.” Malfoy’s breathing, so tortured before, was now steady. Scarily steady. Then, contrary to Rogers’ advice, he slowly got to his feet, his free hand pressed against his side. Despite his wounds, he didn’t make a sound. What kind of life had he had, that he had been shot and stabbed, yet not cried out? “Get out of my face, Stark.”

“You are _bleeding,”_ Tony protested. “From _multiple_ wounds. What happened to you?”

Malfoy didn’t bother to look at him as he wiped at a trickle of blood coming from his nose. “Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

And didn’t that just imply the loveliest things?

Malfoy was composed under the mask of blood, grime and soot. He ignored their loudly expressed concerns, and stared at Loki.

Loki—still in Thor’s mighty grip—stared right back, expression blank.

Malfoy’s face was equally unrevealing.

A nasty silence stretched out.

“That should have killed you,” Loki said.

Malfoy didn’t react. Instead, he turned away to address Romanova and Selvig. “Where is the Cube?” 

“It’s safe,” Romanova said, not lowering the sceptre in her hands.  

“Uh, is that really important right now? You need to see a doctor,” Tony tried again, looking to the others for support. “And what the hell? Were you here the whole time?”

Malfoy continued to ignore him and took a painful step towards Romanova. His gaze was steady and unusually patient.

“Don’t trust him,” Loki said, sounding unusually grave. “He’s incredibly dangerous.”

“Shut up, fuck face,” Barton snapped, not bothering to look at Loki. “Look, kid, it’s not important right now. For once, Stark’s right: you need a doctor and we all need some food before shit gets crazy again. There are probably still some of those green fuckers running around.”

Malfoy shook his head, blinked, and swayed on the spot. Tony wondered how much blood he’d lost.

“There aren’t,” he said. “And they are grey, not green.”

“Oh? And how would you know?” Barton said, looking put out.

“I just do.” Malfoy’s own skin was a horrible greyish colour. Tony wasn’t sure if that was the dust, or severe blood loss. He would bet on the latter.

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Well, I’m calling this whole thing in. Someone secure that asshole before I decide to shoot him, anyway. Stark, got a spare phone?”

Tony nodded and pointed to the landline in its cradle on the far wall. “Dial 998 for external numbers,” he said. Pepper had insisted he get it, and he was now very grateful for the foresight, because his personal phone was still on the Helicarrier with the rest of his stuff.

Barton nodded, retrieved the phone and stalked out onto the balcony. Tony could only admire the man’s professionalism.

Romanova handed Selvig the sceptre and walked over to Tony. “Do you have anything uncomfortable that could restrain Loki?” she asked in a low tone. Tony forbore to comment on the Geneva Conventions, since they may not legally apply to Loki anyway. And the Black Widow was not the ideal candidate for a discussion on basic human decency in the first place.

“I could put something together, but it’ll take time,” he said. Honestly, carbon steel manacles were strictly commission jobs, and even then he had people for that sort of thing. And what kind of kinky shit did Romanova think he was into, anyway? He was just about to demand an answer to this thought, when he saw Malfoy limping to the couches. The kid slowly eased himself down onto one of them, clutching his side, though his face remained utterly blank. He’d left bloody footprints in his wake.

“JARVIS,” he said. “Is there a medic of any kind still in the Tower?”

_“No, sir. But I can contact the emergency services?”_

If any are still standing in the immediate vicinity, they’ll already be swamped, Tony thought, mind racing. He’d have to get the First Aid kit from the lab. “No, I’ve thought of something. Hey, will you kids be okay here for a couple of minutes?” he asked to the room in general.

He received several scornful looks, including a particularly frosty one from Malfoy. Whatever. In his personal lab, he found Butterfingers hiding under a desk, clutching a spanner.

“Hey,” he said, waving to the robot. “It’s okay.”

Several of the windows were cracked, but his beloved little creation wasn’t in danger of succumbing to fatal precipice-inspired curiosity. Tony pulled the trauma kit out of the cupboard and slung it over one shoulder (engineering could get explosive). “Wanna come along, little guy?” he asked.

Butterfingers squeaked and retreated further into the depths.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll come back later and we can clean this place up together,” Tony promised, even though tidying his lab was the last chore he’d ever consider doing. But it made the robots happy, and Tony wasn’t a monster, so he’d do it for Butterfingers. Hell, the guy had just survived an alien invasion, he deserved a treat.

Back in the penthouse, things were almost the same as before—the only real difference being that the Hulk had given way to Bruce Banner, and the good physicist was playing doctor on Malfoy, with Barton ably assisting as nurse.

Also—

“Are you sure that’ll work?” Tony asked, staring at the incongruous sight of Loki lying on the floor, Thor’s hammer resting on his chest.

“Only those worthy of Mjollnir may lift her,” Thor stated. “Not even Banner in his mightier form could move her.” 

“Okay,” Tony said slowly. At least the Cap and Black Widow were keeping a very close watch on the trickster.

“Stark? Is that a First Aid kit?” Barton asked, drawing his attention back to the crisis at hand.

“Fully loaded,” Tony confirmed, hurrying over. Thor was still restraining Loki with Rogers standing nearby, while Romanova and Selvig were talking in low voices by the balcony.

“Okay, we need to get a look at those wounds now,” Banner said in the kind of modulated tone capable of taming wild horses. “Let’s get that shirt and jacket off.”

Tony was expecting it, but Malfoy’s unimpressed look was still a sight to behold. He’d never seen someone arch an eyebrow with such sardonic disdain.

“Come on, kid, we don’t want you to bleed out,” Barton said, reaching out. 

What happened next only took about two seconds.

Barton grasped Malfoy’s wrist, and the kid hissed through his teeth. The lights overhead flickered and JARVIS’ speakers buzzed. Then Barton snatched his hand away as if he’d been electrocuted. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Barton swore, shaking his whole arm. “What was that?”

Loki wheezed out a laugh from the floor. “You cannot touch a seidhrmaester if they do not permit it,” he said.

“Oh no, not the specialist clock makers,” Barton quipped, flexing his hand and grimacing.

“Actually,” said Thor, always helpful in a crisis. “It means that our young friend is an expert magic user. Do you have a term for such people?”

“Magic?” Tony couldn’t help but scoff.

Malfoy, who seemed to be going into shock (why else would he be shivering?), flashed a brief glance of utter fury at Loki and Thor. Then he looked down at his wounded side. “Ah.” The sound seemed to indicate a species of disappointment rather than pain.

“Stark,” Barton said, his voice low and ominously calm. “Get those paramedics on the line.”

* * *

So he hadn’t died in the initial onslaught. In some ways, it was a pity, for now he had to face an inquisition while tackling blood loss, shock, and the effects of two curses that were still at odds with each other in his system.

But whatever else happened, he had to keep himself under better control. When the crazy archer had startled him, the blood spell had given the muggle a warning. Could this be permanent? The ancient magic trilled at him now, warm and comforting, even as he continued to bleed. It would probably let him die—a traitor to his houses. He felt their crests burn on his skin—inky reminders of failure.

Worse still, he had risked everything to give these muggles a chance to get away, and they _hadn’t taken it._ No, they seemed to want to help him, despite being told what he was. Which was just too confusing. From his limited experience of such matters, they really ought to be running away or trying to kill him.

Suspicious, Draco locked eyes with Banner and tried to get a sense of what was in the muggle’s mind. It was only the most superficial of probes, not requiring any actual words, just intent. And it proved ridiculously easy to access the muggle’s thoughts and feelings.

 _Genuine concern, remorse, pity, curiosity, rage_ (bizarrely, at himself, not Draco) _, and deep anxiety._

Draco blinked and pulled back, even more confused. As he tried to puzzle it out, a nasty twinge in his side reminded him that he probably wasn’t long for this strange new world if he didn’t permit them to help him. So he turned his vision inward, and got himself under control in a supreme act of will.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slightly to the archer and Banner. “It won’t happen again.”

He could feel the shivers were getting worse.

The moment he spoke, the archer began to rifle through the bag Stark had brought, while Banner pushed Draco’s hand aside and pushed up his jacket and shirt to get a better look at the wounds in his side.

“You psycho bastard,” the archer said, presumably to Loki, since he seemed to be on fair terms with the rest of the room's occupants. “Stark? We need scissors to cut the shirt and jacket off.”

“One moment,” Draco said. He hated being out in the open with an audience for something like this, but he had little choice in the matter. Slowly, so as not to pain himself further, he retrieved the velvet pouch, the Firebolt Supreme, the dagger in its sheath on his belt, and finally, his wand holster from his arm. The wand itself was in his hand the whole time, ready to hex the first muggle to say or do anything he didn’t like.

He laid his worldly possessions on the sofa and fixed them there with a sticking charm, before casting a notice-me-not charm on them. It was the best he could do at such short notice to keep the muggles from prying into things that were none of their concern.

“What the hell did you just do?” Stark asked. “Because that was a next level creepy sleight-of-hand move, kid. And is that really your _magic wand_?” he said the words so contemptuously, that Draco resolved to get revenge later. As it was, he allowed the archer and Banner to cut the shirt and jacket open to lay bare the wounds. And once Stark caught sight of those, he stopped babbling about ‘cheap tricks’.

“We need you to lie down,” the archer said, pressing bits of white material against Draco’s shoulder. It hurt quite a lot, but Draco didn’t think it was worth making a fuss over. Compared to curse wounds these were fairly minor. It was the blood loss that had caused the problems. So, he allowed Stark, Banner and the archer to help ease him down onto the cushions. That hurt too.

“Okay, you are tough,” the archer said. “But seriously, it’s alright to swear and cry if you want.”

Draco did not demean himself by responding to such drivelling inanities. Instead, he concentrated on breathing evenly and occluding like the Dark Lord was standing over him and demanding ‘an explanation’. In the distant unemotional way of occlumency, he wished he had learned more medical magic. As it was, he could just about keep body and soul together in a crisis for long enough to retreat and submit to a professional’s expertise. He felt the muggles’ hands pressing hard against the wounds. That ached, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much.

His vision was greying at the edges. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is shamelessly begged for.  
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~ L.


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